


Vârcolac

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Austria, Austro-Hungarian Empire, Austro-Hungarian military, Blood, Blood Drinking, Brasov, Gothic, M/M, Minor Violence, Modern Day Romania, Romance, Transylvania, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 04:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: 1740, Young Queen Maria Theresa of Austria sends Hauptmann Arthur Pendrachen and Leutnant Oberarzt Merlin Emryß to Transylvania, currently belonging to the Austrian Crown, with the task of dissuading the locals from believing in legends and myths that are archaic, provincial and frankly absurd. This is the Century of Philosophers, the Age of Enlightment and the state must spread rationality and scientific thinking all around! In short Pendrachen and Emryß are to drive some sense into those credulous peasants who still believe in the undead, also known as vârcolaci, moroi -- vampires.It all starts to plan, but their journey journey ends up being fraught with less Enlightment and more peril than they'd wagered for.





	Vârcolac

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LFB72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/gifts).

> This year I'd love to thank my lovely artist, LFB72, who's not only hugely talented, but also an encouraging and patient person! I've worked with her before and that was a tremendous gift. This time around she valiantly offered to do art for my belated ACBB and let me say she didn't skimp! The banner is Gothic and fairy-tale-like and just mirrors the kind of vibe I'd been going for. And the dividers are so cute! Yes, bats are cute! To you goes a shower of thanks! Here is her art: [ART](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21212942/)
> 
> I'd also like to thank my beta, whom you know on LJ as darkravenwrote. Not only was she quick and thorough and fun to work with! (I loved her notes), but she also so kindly adapted to my preferences for comments and, well, you know how much work betaing is, and she took on this additional burden with her kind heart!
> 
> Lastly, I want to pay homage to the mods, without whom there would be no Amnesty Week, and thus no story. Thank you!

[](https://imgur.com/H53B678)  


November 1740, Vienna, Schönbrunn Palace.

The sky clouded over swiftly and rain descended as it must have during the flood. It pelted the maze paths, turning the soft earth into mud and causing the leaves of the hedges to glisten and shine deeper green. The murk gathered under Maria Theresa's soft brocade slippers and formed little dense pools that lined the way.

Amalia Mniszchowa, stately Karoline Fuchs, Sophie Enzenberg, and Charlotte Hieronymus hurried after Maria Theresa. Amalia cursed in her native Polish, because, so she thought, nobody could understand the degree of foulness her vocabulary could reach. Karoline Fuchs, her dear old governess, put her shawl over her head, but maintained her matronly pace. Sophie and Charlotte had linked hands, their heads bent, as they escaped the rain giggling.

Maria Theresa wanted to follow her ladies-in-waiting’ example, but she had her rank to think of. She couldn't be as carefree as her ladies. Karoline had taught her etiquette, but she needed to be more imposing than her.  


Everything hung on ceremony.

So she didn't run along the paths lined by flowerbeds. She didn't even hasten, though her elaborate hairdo was now dampened beyond repair, its tiers flattened, the curls and twists at the back, sagging against her nape. She held her head high notwithstanding. She wasn't one to be cowed by weather.

There was a certain beauty to the park during a squall. Water drops clung to flower petals, giving them a moist softness that paralleled that of the view. Most of the trees had already lost their leaves, but those that hadn't appeared greener than emeralds. She certainly liked the sight more than that of any of her jewels.

She was thoroughly drenched by the time two pages, their wigs as soaked as Maria Theresa's slippers, rushed to her with an open umbrella. “Your Majesty,” they said at the same time, their miens appalled at the state she was in. 

Maria Theresa wondered if they feared they would be punished. After all, she was with child and that to their minds must make a difference. They didn't understand, however, that she was fairly accepting provided duties were seen to. At least, she'd like to think so.

The poor pages escorted her to the back salon of the palace, where a team of maids was waiting for her with towels and a warm brew. A young dienstmädchen took off her shoes and dried her feet. The other women were being treated to the same, though Maria Theresa could see that the attentions they were receiving weren't as thorough as the ones she herself had enjoyed.

The ladies had scarcely finished giggling when the gilded doors to the salons were thrown open. Count von Starhemberg stalked into the room, the heels of his highly polished shoes clicking as he moved towards her. 

When he got close he bowed deeply, the ends of his wig dangling forwards. Once he'd straightened, Maria Theresa could study his face well. His elderly visage showed no more wrinkles than they had of late, yet he seemed preoccupied. He showed in his manners, however, a hesitation that wasn't usual with him.

It was Maria Theresa who broke the ice. “I sense you have important news to impart to me, Graf Starhemberg.”

Starhemberg bowed again. His penchant for ceremony must have originated with her accession to archduchy of Austria together with the thrones of Hungary and Bohemia, because he hadn't behaved like that with her late father. “Indeed, your Majesty.”

“As is often the case.” Ever since her father's death Maria Theresa had spent most of her time canvassing politics and diplomacy with her various councillors, whom she'd all inherited from her poor parent.

“I've received letters,” he said, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief. 

“Regarding which subject?” Maria Theresa ought to learn how to curb Starhemberg's tendency to dither and digress. “Our empty treasury? The failing numbers of our recruits? Or perhaps our suit to make my husband Holy Roman Emperor.”

“None of that, Your Majesty.”

She raised an eyebrow, turning away one of the maids, who'd come with a shawl and a brush. “You intrigue me, Starhemberg, you really do.”

“I've received letters, Your Majesty, from Transylvania.”

Maria Theresa stayed as perplexed as she had been before. This didn't clarify matters much. “There's news from such a remote part of Hungary?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Starhemberg nodded, fishing in the pockets of his heavily embroidered morning coat. “Some of our officials have reported an increase in superstitious behaviour among the inhabitants of the region.”

“Superstition?” Maria Theresa had been brought up to honour God and adhere to the strict mandates of Catholicism. Her dear Fuchs had made sure she was brought up religiously. As such, Maria Theresa should condemn every notion that contradicted her spiritual upbringing. Yet... “Isn't Transylvania administered separately?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. While the Crown of Saint Stephen rules the region, Transylvania is run directly from Budapest.” Starhemberg bowed. “That said, your Majesty, we don't want the region to be overrun by fanatics.”

“Weren't they long occupied by the Ottomans?” Part of Maria Theresa's upbringing had included history and geography, though not, unfortunately, statecraft. “Their clinging to their strange traditions does seem predictable when one is reminded of that.”

“To an extent,” Starhemberg said. “But I've been told they go too far.”

“Explain yourself.” Maria Theresa wanted to understand this better. Because she was a woman she hadn't been expected to succeed her father. Her parents had long hoped they would have a male heir to fulfil the role of ruler. “How can superstition go too far.”

“They believe,” Starhemberg said, “that such a thing as Vârcolaci exist.”

Maria Theresa frowned. “Pardon?”

“Strigoi, My Lady.” Starhemberg looked at pains to explain himself. “Vampires.”

“I see.” Maria Theresa had never learned about the strange set of beliefs held by the inhabitants of those lands under Hapsburg rule. Her education had veered towards music and religion, as befit a princess of her standing. It seemed now that she ignored more than she had thought. “That's an unfortunate superstition to have.”

“I agree, as do many of the local notables.” Starhemberg's awkwardness regarding the subject shone through. “At least those less prone to credulity.”

“I can see how such beliefs might be vexatious for those of us who support enlightenment and reason,” Maria Theresa said, paying attention to what her words implied. Diplomacy started with the right choice of words. “But one can't change people's minds so easily.”

“The Church has a role in it.” Starhemberg pinched the bridge of his nose. “They charge for masses meant to stop the undead from walking the earth.”

“That's an unfortunate situation.” Maria Theresa upheld the church and its traditions, but she couldn't approve of such ways. The clergy was trying to swindle the gullible population. “But I cannot meddle in ecclesiastical matters.”

Starhemberg inclined his head. That probably meant he agreed. “We cannot, of course, be seen to interfere in matters relating to the church and its rites. But we can cull the problem at the source.”

“And how could we achieve that?” Given that they couldn't exactly rule over the Church, there was little they could do to dispel such myths. “It behoves my dignity to do something, yet I would not endanger the state's relationship with the church.”

“Your Majesty is wise,” Starhemberg said, using a different tone from the one he used to address her father. “But we needn't involve the Church at all.” He seemed to be warming to his subject. “If we could prove all the cases and sightings were nothing but hoaxes, the populace could be persuaded to stop believing in such fairy tale monsters.”

“If we could get such a result, I'd be pleased.” Maria Theresa could see the advantage in that. A quiet, joyous population was a population to be wished for. There would be no unrest, no rebellions. And if that goal could be reached without involving the church the better. “How do you plan to go about it, Count?”

“In the past few years many cases of so-called vampirism have been denounced.” Starhemberg showed his disapproval of the concept by a subtle change of his features. “If we could disprove all of them by means of science, then I think people would stop entertaining any silly notions pertaining to the undead.”

Maria Theresa saw the wisdom in such a proposition. She couldn't, however, forget the fact her father had left the state bankrupt. “A campaign like the one you describe would be costly, Graf Starhemberg.”

“Not necessarily.” For the first time, the light of cunning shone in Starhemberg's eyes. “We could send a few men.” He must have read the disagreement in her eyes. “Even two would be enough.”

The number seemed appropriate, but she wasn't done with her questions. She didn't mean to spend any more money than her father had done. “What could two men do?”

“They could dig into the reported cases and demonstrate they're all, if you'll forgive my use of the term, Majesty, humbug.”

Maria Theresa was highly tempted to assent. “It'll take a long time.”

Graf Starhemberg inclined his head. “Probably.”

“We'll have to pay specialists to look into the matter.” She didn't like that.

“We can use someone already in our pay,” said Graf Starhemberg. “We could pack them off to Transylvania, without even augmenting their salaries.”

Though she saw the inherent injustice in this, she could also see that was the only way to proceed without taxing the treasury further. “Find me two men then, Count, and give them orders to travel to Transylvania to weed out superstition there.”

Graf Starhemberg motioned with his head, a show of deference and assent. “Your Majesty.”

Wishing the audience to be at an end, Maria Theresa signalled to the dienstmädchen to come forward. The young woman did, enveloping her in warm towels and passing her some hot chocolate. 

Starhemberg took that for the dismissal it was and back-pedalled towards the ample doors.

November 1740, Army Barracks, Vienna suburbs

By the guttering light of a candle, Merlin practised an incision that went from sternal notch to groin, the waxy flesh yielding without bleeding. He used to sigh over this, his eyes moistening with the gravity of the task assigned to him, which reminded him of mortality and transience. He used to linger on the sadness that the thought of so much waste entailed. Now he performed it without giving in to feelings, or not too much, knowing that at least he was doing something useful. His old Professor at the University of Vienna used to say he was too fragile for the profession. He had advised him to take holy orders, but Merlin had stuck to his guns.

Concentrating on the corpse of the poor Leutnant on his operating table, Merlin turned around and picked a pair of shears from the collection of instruments lying on the metal cart next to him. He sheared at the torso, cracking bone and slicing flesh, cutting ribs and costal cartilage.

He changed instruments, choosing a knife with a sharp blade that glittered in the half light emanating from the arched windows that lined the room. With the knife, he removed the sternum from the soft tissue surrounding it, exposing the lungs and the heart. He could already see what was wrong; the lungs showed clear signs of oedema and the liver looked congested. 

Still, he had been taught a procedure and he wasn't about to come to any conclusion without having fully performed it.

Inhaling the scent of the mint paste he had smeared under his nostrils, he proceeded. Once again using the knife, he opened the pericardial and saw the heart. His instincts told him there was something wrong with it too, but he didn't let them get away with him. He had to stick to protocol, though he had already an idea as to what had put the poor Leutnant on his table. 

Dabbing at his forehead with his sleeve, he opened the pulmonary artery, seeking blood clots. There was no trace of any. He then directed his attention to the lower portion of the Cava. He cut it and then severed the aorta and the pulmonary artery, freeing the heart from its cage. Looking at it felt strange. No matter how many autopsies Merlin conducted, he still felt awe in the presence of a heart, the organ that had pulsed blood in the body, that kept one alive. Because blood was life, wasn't it. He shook his head. These were strange notions for a surgeon to entertain. 

He had to attend the job at hand and not let his thoughts roam at will. Placing the heart in a glass jar filled with resin dissolved in alcohol, he moved back to the dissection table.

“Poor Leutnant,” he said, not sure whether he was just talking to himself or to the soul of the man under his knife. “It looks as if it's not all seemly.”

Without further ado, he proceeded to remove the abdominal organs. Upon examination he found the mucosa of the stomach was inflamed, showing traces of necrosis in places. The gut was perforated as well. 

He had seen enough to have an opinion as to the cause of the Leutnant's death, yet he wasn't done yet. He needed to firmly establish the cause of death. He owed it to the Leutnant to be sure. His life had been curtailed and there was nothing Merlin could do about that. But he could help the man rest in peace. 

Having weighed and conserved the organs, he went back to work. He was about to examine the intestinal contents, when two Dragoons of the 11th entered the room Merlin was occupying.

They saluted, because Merlin was of higher rank. “You're to report to the Obrist, OberLeutnant Emryß.”

Merlin was still hands deep in a cadaver, scalpel in hand. “All in good time, Flügeladjutant.”

“Sir, the Obrist stressed how important this was.”

As a surgeon Merlin hadn't had much to do with the Obrist, but his reputation preceeded him. He was supposed to be short of temper and highly demanding. He shouted and roared, he punished his troops and threw people out of his office with the ease of a tantrum-prone prima donna. Of course, Merlin wasn't about to say that he knew. There was a chain of command and, given that he had enrolled in the army, he couldn't avoid respecting it. Yet, he had a duty to something other than the army.

It wasn't just about professional ethics either. It was about what he owed the dead Leutnant whose body he had examined. Even though he had passed, he had a right to be vindicated. He shouldn't be buried unless justice had been done. “I think you should know our Leutnant didn't die because of a skirmish with the Prussians.”

The two adjutants looked at each other, clearly confused as to what to do next. They had their orders and Merlin was baulking them in their execution. “Sir?” One of them, showing a glint of curiosity, asked. “What do you mean he wasn't killed in the skirmish. He died on the field.”

“Yes.” Unfortunately, the dead Leutnant's family would receive no pension for a glorious death on the battlefield. “But the head wound from the bullet that hit him didn't kill him.”

“OberLeutnant Emryß,” the first Flügeladjutant said, looking somewhat nauseously at the corpse. “The wound shows.”

“Indeed, it does.” Merlin circled the autopsy table, pointing at the scalp wound even the adjutants had seen. “And I'm sure it bled profusely.” Scalp wounds tended to. “But it didn't kill our Leutnant.”

Merlin was still looking at non nonplussed faces. 

The most courageous of the adjutants swallowed and asked. “But if it didn't, then what did?”

Merlin arched an eyebrow. “Well, the lungs are inflamed and liver congested. The pericardium is inflamed and the myocardium shows signs of disease.” The Flügeladjutanten looked flummoxed so Merlin explained it for them. “I think our Leutnant was poisoned. I think the substance used may well be arsenic.”

The two young officers looked from one to the other, confusion painted on their faces despite their attempts to preserve a martial air. 

Merlin saw that talking to them was no use. Still he had to try to convey to them how important this was. “Justice should be done. I have the science to prove it.”

The first Flügeladjutant pulled on the strap of his rifle as he straightened himself. “You will have to bring it up to the Obrist.” He received a grateful look from his fellow Dragoon, who must have felt he had just been spared being burdened with communicating his order. “But the Obrist has made it clear you should report to him, sir.”

Having no intention to get the poor adjutants into trouble, Merlin acquiesced. They had no power to help him with the case of the poisoned Leutnant. Only the Obrist could do something about it. Seeing as he was wanted, he would rake in two birds with one stone.

After he'd covered the corpse, washed his hands and put his uniform jacket back on, Merlin followed the two adjutants across the quad that separated the various barracks from the other edifices right to the door of the Obrist's own office. The first Flügleladjutant knocked and a voice beckoned them in. 

With the two Flügleladjutanten in his wings, Merlin entered and saluted. The two younger officers did the same. 

The Obrist, a man with eyes of steel and cheekbones as sharp as the cutting edge of a blade, bade him advance. Merlin saluted. As the Obrist acknowledged that, he dismissed the Flügeladjutanten, who retreated to the door, turned around, and clattered out.

“Leutnant E,” the Obrist said, scrutinising Merlin as though for faults. “I had you summoned for a particular reason.”

Merlin wanted to introduce the poisoning subject, but he could this he'd better bide his time He'd better not interrupt the Obrist. Patiently, he said, “Yes, sir.”

The Obrist opened one of his desk drawers and extracted an envelope. Though he put it face down on the worktop, the official-looking wax seal that held it closed was visible. The Obrist toyed with the envelope before addressing Merlin again. “I have received orders from above. I'm to choose two officers to travel to our base in Brasov, Transylvania.”

Merlin stood as rigid and expressionless as he could, but his head was spinning. He didn't understand why he was being sent to Transylvania of all places. Ever since the Turks acknowledged the loss of the principality, it had stayed a quiet rural area where nothing ever happened. “With all due respect, sir, with France, Prussia and Bavaria likely to challenge the succession, I would have thought we would be deployed elsewhere.”

The Obrist didn't seem happy with Merlin's observation. His eyes almost shot lightning. “That's not the matter under discussion. You're to be sent to Transylvania.”

“Yes, sir,” Merlin said, trying to calm the Obrist down. “Why are we required in Transylvania?”

“You're a man of science, aren't you.”

Merlin liked to think so. “Yes, sir.”

“You're to debunk the locals theories as to the existence of vampires.”

Merlin's eyes went round with surprise. “Vampires, sir?”

The Obrist appeared as annoyed with the concept as Merlin was, for he looked heavenwards as though he was seeking salvation from high above. “Yes, vampires. They're all peasants down there. To the last one of them. They hold strange views the government wants them to be disabused of.”

“I see.” This Transylvania business was starting to make sense. Not much but a little. “Yet I fail to understand why I'm being sent specifically. I can do much more good here. I'm working on an important case. The soldier I was dissecting died from poisoning and I'd like to--”

“I don't need you here.” The Obrist's expression grew harsher. “That task can be passed on to somebody else.”

“But if the Leutnant was poisoned, it follows that someone did it.” The case seemed to be clear cut to Merlin. “The poor victim will never have justice if no light is thrown on--”

“Enough, Leutnant.” The Obrist lips had thinned so one might think a vampire had preyed on his blood. “We need a man of science on the mission, someone who can use reason to persuade those peasants of the error of their ways.”

“I see the impact that such a task can have.” Merlin did hope that the science he believed in could help people lead better lives. “But I have a murder case on my hands, sir, and I can't in good conscience let that go.”

The Obrist stood, sending the chair rattling backwards. “Your conscience can rest easy, Leutnant. You have no choice in this. You either go to Transylvania or you'll face a court martial.”

Merlin didn't want that. Not just because he feared a trial, but because he thought he could do good in the army, assist the wounded who needed a field doctor, or throw light upon cases such as the one he was currently handling. He couldn't let go of it and not only because he came from nothing and without the army he would go back to nothing. “Sir, I--”

The Obrist sat back down. “All I need is a straight answer, Leutnant. Are you still opposed to going to Transylvania?”

Merlin had no other answer to give and the Obrist knew it. 

“Very well,” the Obrist said, “I expect you to reach the Brasov outpost in a week. You will meet with the other officer charged with the mission and have an escort until you reach Grosswardein.”

So as not to break out into a series of objections, Merlin looked at the map hanging right behind the Obrist's head. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” The Obrist seemed pleased with his cowing of Merlin. “These are your instructions.” 

Merlin accepted the letter. He knew he wasn't meant to read it now. These were his marching orders and he wasn't meant to open them now. Whatever was in the envelope, he could not refuse to follow his instructions. He pocketed the missive and stood to attention.

“You're dismissed.” The Obrist watched him with his glacial eyes.

On his way back to his barrack, Merlin fumed. He had a job to do and that had nothing to do with the population of Transylvania. He wanted to see the poisoned Leutnant's case through and make sure justice was served. He was a doctor and he wanted to do some good. Helping the poor Leutnant rest in peace was something he could do. It was something he wished he could do. And while persuading people to ditch their superstitions was worthwhile, it could wait.

These farmers and burghers he had been charged with converting to rationality had held their beliefs for a long time. One day more wouldn't hurt. Besides changing minds took work. It was a long process. If he started next month instead of this week, it would be all right. 

But he couldn't go back to the Obrist and tell him as much. Merlin was a soldier and though his vocation lay rather with medicine, he could hardly do as he pleased.

Just as he'd reached the barrack they used as morgue, Merlin sighed. It seemed that Transylvania awaited him.

December 1740, Wiener Neustadt Army Camp

The horse sat splendidly under him. It turned when Arthur wanted it to, going round corners with the grace of a dancer. It jumped when he bid it do it and trotted once it was clear of all obstacles. It pirouetted and performed levades, its legs up in the air, its haunches closer to the ground. 

Arthur led it round and round the enclosure again, his fellow officers clapping and cheering him. Before starting another manoeuvre, Arthur patted his horse on the neck. He believed riders had to be in tune with their mounts, establish a rapport with the animal.

Once he knew his Lippizaner was at its most confident, Arthur led him into a new move, a startling capriole that had his horse jump from a raised position of the forehand straight up into the air. Just at the right moment the Lippizaner kicked out with its hind legs, landing on all four of them.

So as to allow his horse's muscles to relax Arthur walked it around the pen. Though he didn't have it do anything spectacular the Lippizaner moved as if dancing. It looked as though its hooves hardly touched the ground as it moved. The wind in the horse's mane and Arthur's hair whistled in the air.

Preparing for his next move, Arthur got a better grip on the saddle, making sure his soles adhered to the stirrups. Then he gave the order. His beautiful mount raised its forelegd off the ground, tucking them up evenly. In a fluid motion, it jumped forward in a series of hops, its forelegs barely touching down. 

The move was so perfectly executed all the officers cheered and clapped. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw money changing hands. Bets amongst officers weren't a rare thing at all and he couldn't complain about its taking place. On occasion he'd staked his money on wagers too.

Arthur was about to conclude the exercise with a flourish when a Kadett called out, “Hauptmann P, you have to follow me! Generalmajor H wants to see you.”

Arthur slowed his horse and patted its sweaty neck. The Lippizaner neighing and snorting, he went up to the fence. The Kadett stepped away from the horse, because it was trying to lick his face. Maintaining as much of his composure as possible, the Kadett said, “It's rather urgent, sir.”

Arthur's comrades shared a look of confusion with him. Knowing he couldn't put off obeying an order, Arthur nodded, though he did wonder what the fuss was about. Though they were on high alert, a war with the Prussians being considered probable, his regiment wasn't yet on the move. Why was he being summoned then?

Maybe some kind of mission was being entrusted to him. A secret endeavour he was meant to carry out before the conflict started. This meant he had been singled out for it. This was a recognition of his abilities and his strict adherence to duty. It made him proud. His initial resistance at being made to give up his riding exercises gave way to a sense of gratification that fanned the flames of his amour propre.

Dismounting, he handed the reins to one of his fellow officers, jumped the fence, and strode across the camp towards the Generalmajor's office. 

It was empty when Arthur entered. Paintings of battles and portraits of great military commanders adorned the place. Papers were strewn on the desk in tall columns and shorter stacks. A fine looking sabre lay on one of the two chairs facing the desk. 

Arthur had just finished taking in his surroundings when the Generalmajor entered. He was a robust man whose highly decorated uniform sat tightly on him. As a Hauptmann, Arthur didn't usually take orders directly from him, but he had seen him about, and thus knew he was unchanged from the last time he'd seen him.

Arthur stood to attention, gaze directed forwards, head held high, spine straight. The General only told him to be at ease once he had taken his seat behind the desk and started poring over a missive sealed by a huge red seal.

“There's an enterprise I mean to entrust to you,” the Generalmmajor then said. “You're to to travel north to Vienna and meet with the escort following Leutnant Emryß to Brasov.”

“That's in Transylvania,” Arthur blurted out before he could think better of it. “Has there been news of unrest there?”

“The population is peaceful enough.” The Generalmajor accepted Arthur's outburst without pulling rank. “You're to render it even more peaceful by making sure no false beliefs could cause uprisings.”

Arthur wasn't sure what the Generalmajor was talking about. You couldn't wage a war on ideas. It made little sense. “Sir, I don't see...”

“They believe in witchery,” the Generalmajor said, specifying for Arthur's benefit. “In creatures of the night and such like. That is not conducive to good government, the state holds.” He placed a hand on the official-looking despatch he had been reading. “Therefore it's to be weeded out.”

“Can't they send a priest for that?” Arthur was a soldier through and through. He believed in the power of the military to protect and defend, honour Austria and the lands it had conquered. But this had no part in what a military man should do. “I'm sure they're better qualified to combat superstition than an army man can be.”

“They have priests in Brasov,” the Generalmajor said, undoing the first button of his uniform and lying back in his chair. “They failed at their task. It's in the interest of the state to change the outlook for the populace. That's why we're sending you.”

Arthur thought that over. It did make sense, but it wasn't exactly what he'd foreseen doing in the near future. A rookie Gefreiter could see to this well enough. They didn't need an officer for this, especially not in the current times. “Sir, I'd hoped to see some field action.”

“Ah, another soldier looking forward to a conflict between the House of Hapsburg and the other crowned heads of Europe.”

“I'm not looking forward to the deaths, sir.” Yet, as a soldier Arthur was wont to think of death as something that was part of his calling and couldn't be avoided. He was prepared to accept he might die on the field. He'd grown accustomed to thinking of his fellow soldiers as similar beings; people who'd signed up for a risky job that entailed an untimely end. “But I was hoping to be on the front-line if war broke out.”

“As a military man I understand your point of view, Hauptmann.” The Generalmajor hadn't flown off the handle at Arthur's confession. “But I must follow orders in the same way you do.”

“I was just thinking, sir, that you could choose some other person for this job.” Arthur balled his fists. “I want to defend my homeland, so that it's safe and secure.” He wanted to live a good legacy, to be remembered as a brave man. That was perhaps a vanity he hadn't shared with others, but he did mean well. “I'd like to support the right of my Queen to rule Hapsburg lands.”

“That's commendable, Hauptmann P,” the Generalmajor said. “And I'll be sure to post you to the front as soon as the occasion arises, but you will have to fulfil this mission first.”

“It might last years!” Arthur said, biting his lip soon after. “I'm sorry, sir.”

The Generalmajor nodded. “I see you can correct yourself.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed before addressing Arthur again. “There will be time for heroics and the dance of battle. For now, you'll do what the state wants you to do, what your Queen wants of you. That's going to be enough.”

Though he had misgivings about this, though something in his nature rebelled, Arthur accepted it. He was a soldier and he had to do what he was told. His heart screamed for action, but he would have to learn to curb its desires. “Yes, sir.”

The Generalmajor relaxed visibly. “Good, good. It'll be an easy job and you will be on the battlefield sooner than you might like.”

Arthur rode ahead of the column of men he had chosen as escort. He did it out of habit, because he had always wanted to be the one on lookout, the one to meet danger first. But today there was no need. They were travelling south, towards Eisenstadt, a quiet country town were nothing ever happened. Every now and then a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped past them., or sometimes a lonely curate would fall back behind them, likely headed to the next village. 

The road was straight and, in spite of the late season, washed in sunlight. The trees were coated in yellow and deep red, their fronds whispering in the breeze that blew as a gentle constant. The ground at their base was dotted with specks of every colour from those deciduous flowers that had pushed through the soil even in autumn. Because of the seasonal rains the terrain by the wayside looked a deep brown, mixed in with the ochre of fallen leaves and the occasional flash of corrugated red from rotting fruit. 

The road was bordered by gentle valleys in which lazy cattle grazed and woods populated by wild boars and red deer. Further on the road would veer southwards and take them to Hungary, where the plains and steppes began. 

But for now they could enjoy the familiar vista of forests and meadows that characterised this side of Austria. 

By the time the afternoon sun bathed the path, Gwaine, who had been chewing grass blades as he rode, was snoring in the saddle.

Leon's uniform had got a little tarnished with dust from the road, and Mordred's stomach rumbled so audibly Arthur could hear it over the clop of the horse's hooves. Percival had ridden as silently and stoically as was his wont. 

When Elyan's horse bumped into the rear of Gwaine's, --causing the latter to neigh and go forwards at a troth,-, Gwaine woke, cursing. He pulled on the reins until he had his mount back under control. The others laughed. Even Arthur as their leader couldn't hide a smile.

“Go on, laugh,” Gwaine said, putting his horse to its paces. “What I'd like to know is when we're meeting with this other officer of yours.”

“He's nothing of mine.” Arthur could barely hide his annoyance. The reason for it wasn't only the fact he wasn't being held back in preparation for the front,but he'd rather have chosen his squadron himself. He was a Hauptmann; it went with his job. In this case he'd been given precise orders. “But we have to pick him up.”

“I don't get why we need him,” Gwaine continued, as if Arthur hadn't already graced his comment with an answer.

Arthur wasn't at liberty to share all of the plans. “He's a doctor,” Arthur felt safe to say. “He will know how to deal with the situation.”

Arthur's men looked totally unconvinced. They probably shared the common soldier prejudice against doctors. All soldiers avoided them whenever possible because they knew their next meeting would be after the field and God knew what condition they'd be in. Who wanted to share time with a sawbones? These thoughts were surely shared by all the levies, but even Arthur, who had been years in the army, couldn't wholly empty his mind of such preconceptions.

He was busy trying to think of a line of conduct to maintain, when two horses appeared on the road further ahead. 

Arthur tried to make out the people astride them, but couldn't tell anything except their uniform. They both wore the blue coat with scarlet facings of a grenadier from a dragoon regiment. Only closer proximity would allow him to tell what rank the two officers were based on whether their hats were bearskin or not and what device their plate bore. At this distance Arthur couldn't tell whether they were from the Battianyi or Khevenhuller regiments. Either way Arthur wished he didn't have to stop now,that he could go to Transylvania, impart his message, and then get back to Vienna in time to be assigned to the front when the inevitable war with the Prussians broke out.

When they approached, Arthur could distinctly make out the two men. One was very young, with a struggling moustache that failed to adorn his lip. The other was roundabout Arthur's age, but as different from him as night from day. He was pale, dark-haired and lithe. Though mounted, the latter had to be the doctor. He had something about him, a sleekness of form, a delicacy of feature, a lack of bulk that didn't make him appear like a front-line soldier. That said, there was a determination about the way he dismounted, a certain stubbornness about the firmness of his otherwise generous mouth that suggested he had the character of a combatant of some kind.

Though he ought not to, Arthur liked what he saw. It was an instinctive reaction, an unconsidered motion of his being. He even ignored shortcomings that he would otherwise have condemned, like the senior officer's failure to button his coat down to the very last button or to satisfactorily shine his boots. If any man under him had done that Arthur would have reprimanded them. Apparently, Arthur felt no need to point that out now. He told himself he was being diplomatic, extending the hand of friendship between corps, that this man was needed. It was only rational. 

It wasn't. It was just a sensation that pervaded him at the sight of this army doctor. That, however, was something he should tamp down on. It wasn't what was required of him. It wasn't part of his duty.

Seeing the Leutnant dismount and walk up to him, Arthur should have got off the saddle too. But he didn't. He was the superior officer. A Leutnant was under him. There was a case to be made for establishing a good relationship with this army doctor he was going to spend the next few months with, but he stopped himself from considering it. 

The army doctor, who had extended a hand to him with a smile to go with it, dropped it and sobered. He was quick to put on a military salute. “Oberarzt Merlin Emryß.” He turned to introduce his younger colleague, who had dismounted too. “This is Fourier Daegal Mönch*,” Oberarzt Emryß said. 

“Hauptmann Pendrachen,” Arthur said. “Moltke Regiment, third Musketeers.” Arthur turned his head so his gaze could encompass his men. “That man you see on the black stallion is Leutnant Leon Grosshaus, borrowed from the Carlstädt regiment. That other man who's making faces at me is Gwaine, an Irish rogue from the seventh Dragoon Guards, who's been leant to us by the British Army.” 

As Gwaine doffed his tricorn hat in way too elaborate a fashion for such a meeting, Arthur moved on with his introductions. “These other two,” Arthur added, indicating Percival and Mordred, “are from my own regiment and battalion, while Elyan on the beautiful roan is from de Vettes regiment and was born in Siebenburgen, which as you know is-”

“In Transylvania, yes,” Oberarzt Emryß said, squinting against the sun so that his eyes creased at the corners. “Beautiful but remote, they say.”

“Remote is more like it.” Elyan shrugged his shoulders. “That's why I got out of there as soon as I could.”

Small talk was good enough in the mess, but it wasn't right when they had their marching orders. They had a schedule they would have to stick to if they wanted to get to Hungary before the weather turned to winter, and rains and squalls lashed them into place. His face showed his thoughts, for Elyan lowered his head and Oberarzt Emryß sent him a questioning look. He didn't, however, object at all when Arthur gave the order to march.

If they were to get to Brasov in under two weeks they had better work their horses.

That night they reached a wayside inn in Sopron, which had the benefit of lying past the border with Hungary. The inn itself was a country house standing on two floors with a thatched roof presenting straw interlaced with thin turf sod as binding and pointed gables. A large hen yard expanded to the left side towards the fence that separated the property from the dusty road. To the right side a building with solid walls of mud and emanating a penetrating manure smell served as stables. 

Inside there was a crude but functional fireplace with a steaming pot hanging above. If it hadn't been for the benches flanking the tables and the customers clanking mugs of ale, Merlin might have mistaken it for his home. The language spoken, however, was not that of his childhood. He detected Hungarian, an idiom he did not speak, but that he was still able to quickly recognise, for to many of of his fellow officers it was their mother tongue.

A server came over to them smiling. Seeing their uniforms, she guessed what they were and spoke in German. “So what's your custom, officers?”

Hauptmann Pendrachen strode forwards, “We'll each of us have ale and whatever sturdy food you've got cooking.”

The server tilted her head to the side and smiled challengingly, placing her hands on her hips. “We have bacon and bean soup and roasted chicken. Nothing else for you fancy soldiers.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen made a face and Merlin stepped in. “That will be lovely.”

The server flashed Merlin a grin and sashayed away with flair, the eyes of all the men trailing after her.

Hauptmann Pendrachen wasn't in such good humour apparently, for he looked at Merlin with tense disapproval. “When you're done flirting with the servants, perhaps we can get our dinner.”

Merlin didn't tell him that he was wrong. It wasn't Hauptmann Pendrachen's place to know. He tried to keep the peace instead. “I was just trying to keep the good mood.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen didn't qualify that with a comment. Instead, he led the way to a free table. It was far enough from the hearth for them to not suffer from overheating, but too close to the back door, which invited a constant draught.

The food came relatively quickly and for a while silence reigned among them. They had all been on the road for a long time and they all needed fuel. When the first pangs of hunger where sated, conversation started among them.

“So Elyan,” Hauptmann Pendrachen said, “you're native to the region. What can you tell us of its inhabitants that can help us in our job.”

Elyan moved food around in his plate thoughtfully. He stopped when he answered, looking at each of them in turn. “They're not any different from you or I.” When that answer didn't seem to please his listeners, he amended it. “But it is true that some of the peasants tend to believe in local lore rather too strongly.”

“Science can help with that,” Merlin said, hoping he could contribute something to the mission. “If we conduct a few experiments...”

“I'm sure that's the reason you were sent,” Elyan told him. “But I know these people and I'm not sure it's going to stick.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen redirected the conversation to safer topics and before long they were done with their food. Gwaine tried to convince the group to tarry in the common room over their pints, but his Hauptmann put an end to their socialising. 

Merlin would have liked to come to know the other officers better. They would be his escort all the way to Brasov, and Merlin thought having the measure of these men would come in handy. Besides, he liked people. But he didn't say anything. Though they belonged to different corps, Hauptmann Pendrachen was technically his superior. Normally that wouldn't have stopped Merlin from butting heads with him, but they were at the start of what would be a complicated partnership and he didn't want to ostracise him right at the start.

The innkeeper gave them the keys to their rooms. Before even stepping upstairs, they learnt that they would have to share. To Hauptmann Pendrachen's men and Daegal went two rooms. As their superior officers Pendrachen and Merlin would share between them. 

Though Merlin was used to living in cramped spaces, he'd never had siblings so he wasn't exactly used to sharing rooms. Even in the army he hadn't had to do much of that since his degree in medicine granted entry as an officer. As for Pendrachen, he didn't look too pleased about having to spend the night in the same space as Merlin. 

Even if he had dropped no hints as to his social status there was something about Hauptmann Pendrachen that spoke to Merlin of the aristocracy. It wasn't just the way he talked or his chosen profession. He had a bearing, an air, that was that of nobility. He didn't put on airs, but there was something sophisticated about him nonetheless.

The room they had been assigned was mostly bare but spacious. It lay in the loft under the eaves, with the beams supporting the roof completely visible as was the way in rustic inns. The two beds, on whose frames thin mattresses lay, stood at opposite ends of the space. The blankets were thin and not suited to the harsher nights of the autumnal season, but they could make do.

Hauptmann Pendrachen didn't hide a moue of disappointment at their quarters, but he kept the sentiment to himself. Boots removed, weapons discarded and top button of his coat undone, he lay down and failed to suppress a moan.

If he was as tired as Merlin felt, that was only natural. 

At first a silence stretched between them. Because Hauptmann Pendrachen had put a stop to their socialising downstairs, it was rather early to turn in. Though they were both worn out by a long day in the saddle, it was scarcely dark outside. Since sleep wouldn't come for either of them, Hauptmann Pendrachen broke the silence. “So how do you plan to go about it?”

“About what?” Merlin turned his head on the pillow, so he was looking at his interlocutor.

“This vampire thing.” Pendrachen waved a hand in the air.

Though the illustration of the concept had been vague, Merlin forgave the Hauptmann his lack of precision. “I don't usually make plans. I suit my actions to the circumstances.”

“That is to say, you mean to wing it.” Hauptmann Pendrachen stole a glance at him.

Merlin wanted to shrug, but decided that the Hauptmann was too rigorous in his ideals to accept Merlin's easiness of manner as regarded soldierly dignity with equanimity. “I adapt.”

“But you must have some kind of idea as to what to do.”

Merlin had indeed questioned himself as to his future actions, but he also knew he couldn't define them unless he learnt how to react to the variables attached to this specific case. “I hope they'll let themselves be convinced easily, but you've listened to Elyan. They're pretty much attached to their convictions.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen turned on his side. But he seemed restless, for he changed position, sitting on the bed so he was facing Merlin. “We must succeed.”

“I do agree.” Since he hadn't been able to see to the case that had originally been assigned to him, he meant to pour all his skills into this. “But you look rather eager.”

“That's because I am,” Pendrachen said. “The sooner we're done in Transylvania, the sooner we can prepare for a fight with the Prussians.”

Merlin sighed and looked down. He was aware of how close they were to waging war over Queen Maria Theresa's succession, but he wasn't looking forward to it. He was a military man, it was true; he ought to welcome the conflict. But to be quite honest he wasn't keen to tend to deeply wounded men, to try to bring them back from the brink of death, to amputate limbs that had been perfectly fine before the conflict. It was his calling, naturally. If anybody needed him, he would attend to them to the best of his abilities. But he did wish there was no need for that, that no wars would ever break out. But he knew how optimistic a view that was. There was no changing mankind and their proclivity to violence. He would just have to do his best towards all his patients.

Hauptmann Pendrachen must have sensed what Merlin was thinking about, at least in part, for he said, “You fear engagement.”

“If you're asking whether I fear death,” Merlin said, “then the answer is yes. But that's not the point, is it?”

“How is it not the point?” Hauptmann Pendrachen's face tightened massively. “A soldier should be ready to sacrifice himself to protect his homeland.”

“If the occasion requires it, yes.” From the very moment he had enrolled, Merlin had known that he was signing up for a dangerous profession. He hadn't had many other options, it was true, but he'd meant to honour his calling. “But I don't see the honour in death. If I can survive, I'll try and if I can help other men survive, I will do my utmost.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen continued to look disapproving, rather thunderous overall, but he didn't say anything. It was clear he didn't want to foster a conflict between them when it could be avoided. In that, he was being a good officer. But Merlin could tell he was being weighed and found wanting, that his attitude towards military life was being condemned. 

Merlin could try and justify himself, write a treaty concerning his point of view. But he would fail to convince Pendrachen he was a worthy man. It shouldn't matter. Merlin wasn't here to make friends, but to do his job, but still it rankled. He wished he could have an easy going relationship to this man, because Merlin has a suspicion he was a bloody good soldier. Alas, it wasn't to be. While they could be respectful of each other, Merlin would have to learn to be happy with how the Hauptmann viewed him.

That night they didn't speak anymore. They each closed off in their respective silences. It was a while before they fell asleep too, so Merlin had to bear being at variance with the Hauptmann, while chasing slumbers that wouldn't come. It was hard to accept, but by and by the night was over.

They took the road that went from Sopron southwards towards Szeged. They started early each morning and put up at roadside inns only when there was no more light to steer by. Hauptmann Pendrachen made no exceptions to this pacing rule, not even when Gwaine stayed up all night chatting up the local beauties or when an accident on the road – from pigs blocking the paths down to landslides making them inaccessible – happened. In that way, they covered almost all of the distance they were meant to in under two weeks. 

The vistas they came across were varied and beautiful. They ranged from hills, black forests and orchards expanding either side of the road. Little villages nestled side-by-side with a church standing either at their centre or their outskirts. They were plainwith white walls and wooden ceilings and towers that went back centuries. 

As they moved further south still they encountered vast plains, whose boundaries the eye failed to make out. If they hadn't been on a mission, Merlin would have counted himself lucky to be there, enveloped in nature; the peace of the countryside affected him deeply. After all he was of peasant stock himself. He may have had a different path cut out for himself and though the army favoured officers of high birth, Merlin made no qualms with himself about his origins.

After all, the peasants he saw – though accoutred with different implements, speaking a different dialect, and wearing other national costumes,-- weren't that different from the ones he was used to. That was the boon and the curse of living under the rule of a distant central government. So many people were gathered together, born to fight for the same rule, and that made for disparate groups that had much in common. Yet, their uniqueness wasn't respected, but rather taken for granted. Whereas the natural inclination of the folk born to these lands were formed by habit and century old traditions, Vienna sought to stamp that variance out. Merlin knew that wasn't just He even wondered how long that could last, but wouldn't motion rebellion the way the English had done in the last century. He feared the bloodshed that would follow.

Hauptmann Pendrachen didn't suspect him of such seditious musings, he just made sure they made the next leg of their journey in the planned time.

Once they reached Szeged the countryside flattened considerably. The river Tisza flowed across the plains they encountered, flooded with river water, where an explosion of vegetation flowered around. In spite of the late season, the river wasn't frozen and greenery could still be observed. 

They had an easy time of it. Their journey unfolded without incident, barring one. When they entered the village of Deva, which lay between Timisoara and their final destination, they learnt that war had indeed broken out without them. It was the twentieth of December and the news was a few days old. The local mayor told them once they reported to him. 

Arthur's features contracted into a scowl, with his mouth so tight he had managed to squeeze all colour out of it. Likely knowing what was going on with him, his men looked to him for an explosion, but it didn't come. Whatever Hauptmann Pendrachen thought of his posting, he didn't say it.

For his part, Merlin was enveloped by a great sadness. Though he wouldn't be there to partake of the risks, he could imagine what was happening. His heart shrank at the idea of the loss of life such an event would produce. Though he wasn't much of a believer, he spared a prayer for all the victims this conflict would generate.

It was with a heavy heart that they entered the town of Sighisoara, its medieval walls erected on top of a rise overlooking the river. It was there that they halted for the first important stop of their journey. There they met by a Hungarian administrator acting for Vienna and there they parted ways with part of their escort, namely the officers Hauptmann Pendrachen had brought with him.

They started towards Brasov as a threesome. Arthur, Oberarzt Emryß and Daegal were meant to proceed to the more southern outpost. The day began inauspiciously with torrential rains that rendered the roads rivers of mud. The hoofs of their mounts sank in and almost got stuck in the slush and guiding them became harder than normal. Before mid morning they were drenched and cold, for an easterly wind took to blowing and icing everything in its path.

They were midway towards Brasov, riding along a dirt road that was supposed to be a shortcut, but had revealed itself to be a bit of a quagmire, when they saw a young woman plodding along. She was dressed in mud coloured tatters and her feet were bare. The sight stopped Arthur short. 

The lass was bent over from fatigue and carrying a heavy sack. She looked like she needed help, not only because she seemed hardly capable of bearing that load, but because she oozed misery. Arthur felt those in need must be helped whenever possible. The world was enough of a harsh place and Arthur understood how privileged he was. Giving back was necessary so as to level out the playing field that was life.

Having seen her toil, Arthur spurred his mount forwards. He was aware of the Oberarzt and his aid prodding their mounts on as well. Reaching the girl took no time, for she was advancing towards them all the same.

When Arthur hailed her, she recoiled in fear, her body locked in a defensive response.

Arthur gentled his expression so that she would know he was no danger to her. For a few beats she remained petrified, hunched in, as if she was expecting an open attack. But by and by her shoulders lost their defensive posture, and her eyes came to show less and less fear.

It was then that Arthur said in his most soothing voice, “Do you need any help?”

The girl shook her head. 

“It's no bother to us.” This was not strictly true. Arthur had wanted to reach their destination as swiftly as possible. If they managed to convert the locals to a more rational way of thinking, then perhaps Arthur could go where he belonged. The battlefield. But the girl's plight could not be ignored. After all, it was to protect people such as her that he fought at all. “We'll escort you wherever you need to go and take care of your burden.”

“No.” The girl finally spoke. “I've not far to go.” Her German was rusty and accented but charming nonetheless. “I can manage.” She observed the men behind Arthur. Neither the Oberarzt nor his young adjutant seemed to inspire any more fear in her. “If your worthiness be fine with it, I'll be on my way.”

“We can do you a service.” Arthur knew he was a persistent individual. If the occasion required it, he would be zealous in using all his charms. “I'm sure you long to feel well-rested just as we do.”

The girl watched them closely; something about her seemed to mellow. Her features visibly relaxed. She put down her burden, a burlap sack tied at the top with leather strings. “You're kind. But you're not going the same way I am. You're going south.”

She had guessed right. “We are indeed, but that is of no consequence.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Oberarzt nodding. “We can travel some way back.”

“I'm almost where I need to be.” The girl extended her neck so she could look past them at the road they had come from. Then she shifted her gaze onto Arthur. “If I were you I wouldn't travel south.”

Arthur frowned. “Why shouldn't we? Our duty calls us to Brasov.”

The girl's cheeks hollowed and her face drained of blood. “Do not go there.” She crossed herself muttering words in her native language, a mix of Hungarian and Romanian, which Arthur could hardly follow. She must have understood that they weren't following at all, for she switched back to her broken German. “You mustn't. Not for the world.”

Arthur craned his neck and searched his companions faces. They appeared to be as much at a loss to understand as he was. Arthur addressed the girl again. “We are soldiers. We have been posted there. We must go there.”

She shook her head in wide motions, her eyes showing their whites. “You don't understand. It's dangerous.”

Arthur felt like laughing, but he strove to keep his countenance so that she wouldn't feel like he was mocking her. “We are military men. We follow danger.”

The girl caught his bridle, causing Arthur's horse to neigh and shake its mane. “This isn't danger like any other.”

“No situation is quite like the other,” Arthur said, trying not to offend the spooked girl while trying to communicate a feeling of calm to her. “But we need to face the danger that awaits us. It is our calling.”

Scaring Arthur's horse even more, the girl got closer, clinging to the reins. “Death awaits you.” Her knuckles whitened. “But not heaven. A walking death.” 

The Oberarzt's young adjutant let out a snort. 

Arthur wanted to do the same, but for the girl's sake he restrained himself. To be honest, he wished he could tell her she was making no sense. He even wondered whether she was entirely sane, but common courtesy stopped him from showing his thoughts. “Nevertheless, we'll have to brave Brasov.”

Abruptly, she let go of the reins and rooted in the pocket of her long and dirty apron. She held something in her fist, which she shoved at him as if it was a hot potato. “Take this.” She flashed a meaningful glance at him. “It's for protection.”

Arthur studied the object he found in his hand. It was a string of beads, cheaply fashioned, punctuated by larger knots. At first Arthur thought it was just a piece of tat, some kind of ornament country girls adorn themselves with. But he soon realised he'd been mistaken. He was handling a rosary, one simply fashioned, yet an object fashioned for the observation of faith. He still wasn't clear why he'd been given such an article, but he was sure of one thing. He ought to return it, for surely it must be dear to the girl. “I thank you,” he said with a smile, “but I can't keep it.”

The girl refused to take it back, however. Arthur looked to the Oberarzt, who locked gazes with him. They communicated without words and with nary a gesture. Arthur could do nothing but accept the gift. The Oberarzt expressed his thanks and the girl smiled at him. 

Returning her gaze to Arthur, she said, “Don't forget to say your prayers and keep it close.”

Before Arthur could ask why she insisted on these points, the girl had picked up her sack and started walking in the direction from which they had come. “Do we follow her?”

Oberarzt Emryß shook his head. “It doesn't look like she wants any help. Inflicting it on her wouldn't be kind.”

The Oberarzt had said something that touched Arthur. He had wanted to render the girl a service, be useful to her, but it was clear that his views didn't match hers. She wished to be gone and he could do nothing to assist her further. The Oberarzt had a social kind of insight when it came to people who, in the eyes of the world, were not Arthur's equal. That was a trait Arthur could value in a man. Briefly, Arthur wondered what the man's story was, what kind of past he'd had, but he quashed those musings quickly. They had places to be.

With an order spoken in low tones, Arthur got them on the march again.

Brasov was as medieval a city as Timisoara had been. It was fringed by the Carpathians, which formed a belt around it just as the fortifications built around it did. It had many towers and walkways between them as well as outworks and smaller strongholds. The walls of some of these structures were still singed in places due the late wars with the Ottomans. Here even the churches were fortified. 

Above it all, perching on the close hilltop, the great castle that guarded the city dominated. From it the Wallachian rulers had administered the city, as had the King's of Hungary. Today it was no longer a useful defensive structure, but its stone bulk with its red roofs was visible from all over.

As for the town it was all narrow streets which climbed and twisted and half-timbered houses. Because darkness was about to descend almost no one was about. A few old crones sat in the doorways under garlic chains, knitting away at shawls and scarves. A few carts lumbered along, pulled by small weary horses spurred by aged and angry carters. 

The doors to most houses were closed and lights only showed in a few windows. Merlin reminded himself of the fact this was only a small town. People rose early and went to bed equally early. They didn't use up their candles and they didn't waste their energies when they could repose. 

Even so, Merlin wasn't met with any positive feelings. The place didn't appear particularly welcoming. Not that they had been feted on their way over; a handful of soldiers from the core of the Austrian kingdom wasn't a sight to excite the locals. They were part of the order, the status quo, yet somehow foreign and distant, not belonging to the provincial life they were meddling with. Yet here things look different.

There was a sombreness to the town, a gloom, some kind of incongruence. Merlin told himself it was due to the history of the place, an area disputed between Hungary and the Ottoman empire. They were used to war here and to the devastation that followed. Yet the Hapsburg had ruled here for more than eighty years. Within living memory this province had been rather peaceful, or as peaceful as lands can be in these days of strife.

So what was affecting the place? 

Merlin would have made it a subject of discussion, but by now they were deep into the town, and close to calling it a day. Daegal was yawning fully and the horses were practically trudging forwards. 

“I think we should ask for directions,” Hauptmann Pendrachen said, stopping his horse in proximity to a small sloping square. “We should report to the Szekely magnate acting for Vienna.”

“It looks like half of town is asleep.” Merlin was tempted to have a look at his pocket watch, but he could swear it wasn't seven yet. “We'd be bothering the great lord.”

With the air of someone who knew what they were talking about, Pendrachen said, “Great lords entertain at his hour.”

Merlin arched an eyebrow. “I have a feeling these ones are not as active.”

Pendrachen took a look at the square around him, how dead it was. It was clear he was persuaded, but he nevertheless said, “Where else would you stay? The Szekely lord's mansion is the place to be as he's the one taking the most decisions here.”

“That's as may be.” Merlin didn't enjoy opposing the Hauptmann, but somehow he just did it. “But I think we wouldn't be very welcome if we interrupted his slumbers. We'd better lodge at that inn over there.” He pointed to a short and stout building, next to which a wooden shack that served as smithy stood. “And report to Szekely’s lord and local priest tomorrow.”

The Hauptmann reviewed the location Merlin had suggested. The downturn of his mouth suggested he had something against the venue, yet he said, “I suppose we've stayed in worse places. We should add to the streak.”

They dismounted and knocked on the door. A gracious girl with tight curls and a radiant smile welcomed them in. “Oh, I wasn't expecting guests at this hour.” She hid her broom behind the door she was leaning against. “People aren't just out and about so late and in winter.”

“I thought this place was an inn?” Hauptmann Pendrachen's eyebrow lifted. 

“Oh yes, it is.” The broom that the young woman had stashed behind the door clattered to the floor. She picked it up and put it back in place. “Not everybody can tell because this is an expansion to my father's blacksmith's business.” Hauptmann Pendrachen made a face and the young woman realised she should hold herself in check. “Oh, but I'm confusing you. You don't need to know all that.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen flashed her the kindest smile Merlin had yet seen on him. “You never know. It could be useful information.”

“But you'll want to know whether we have lodgings for you,” the young woman said. 

The Hauptmann assented.

“Well, I do have three rooms.” She looked behind her as if to confirm that. “You can have them for three Thalers.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen showed her one of the little money bags he had on him. “Will that satisfy you.”

“Oh, yes. Very much so.” Still she wasn't budging from the threshold.

“Do we fail to match up with the household's standards?” Pendrachen made a gesture that encompassed the three of them.

The young woman vehemently shook her head, dislodging more than a single curl. “No, it's not that. It's not that.” She appeared to be at a loss for words, the more so since Pendrachen was starting to get a little impatient. “It's just that...” She made a few sounds that didn't amount to words. “This is a very religious household, and you would better conform to its rules, if... you could recite a prayer.”

“A prayer?” Hauptmann Pendrachen sounded as though he was barely reining in the laughter. 

“Uhm, yes.” The girl shifted in place, fanned herself and appeared overall flustered. “Not that we wish to impose any religion on our guests, but we'd... feel better if you recited one.”

Pendrachen fidgeted too. “Um, will a prayer for soldiers do?”

The young woman nodded her head. “Of course.”

Pendrachen cleared his throat more than once, as if he was about to take the stage and act. “Almighty and eternal God, Protect these soldiers as they discharge their duties.

Protect them with the shield of your strength.” He looked at the inn lady and she signalled that he should go on, so Pendrachen did, stumbling over a few words, having clearly forgotten some. “We ask this through Christ our Lord.”

The young woman pulled the Hauptmann in. “In that case you're welcome.” She looked to Merlin and Daegal. “As are you of course.”

Merlin and Daegal stepped inside. Merlin, for one, was happy to finally find himself away from the road. 

The inn was a simple place, like many of the others they'd stayed at on the way, but it exuded a sort of charm. The furniture, for example, was a little damaged but prettily arranged. Decoration wasn't lacking either. Vases full of paper flowers adorned the surfaces of several pieces of furniture. Small pictures of local scenery hung on the walls. The only oddity was the strings of garlic plants hanging from the rafters.

“I'm Gwen,” the young woman was saying. “Let me show you to your rooms.”

So saying, she went up the stairs, upon which they followed her.

The path bent past the old stables belonging to the Balescu family. By now they housed no animals and the building itself had grown ramshackle, with a leaking roof and a gap in the planks facing on the dirt road leading to the woods. The fence itself, which separated the Balescu land from the communal grazing areas, was missing more than one link.

Ever since she was a child Constanta had played around in the area. She and her brother had mucked about from morning till noon, giving a go to games of hide and seek, and four square. Though she shouldn't have, she'd played inside the disused stable buildings countless times. So she was familiar with every nook and cranny in the area. Though her parents had always told tales about the woods – how they were infested by wolves and bears, how easy it was to lose oneself in them – she had never hearkened their words. She had pushed far into their depths and never encountered any predator if not the small ones.

So she had no reason to fear the area. She had been born and bred to it. But tonight something was different and unease worked itself inside her. It might be because it was cold and dark. The moon rarely showed and the temperature was getting frosty. No matter how much she wrapped and re-wrapped her shawl around her she couldn't feel warm. Her feet were cramping inside her shoes. The chants of animals from the forest chilled her in a way not even the wind had managed to.

She tried not to lend her ear to those sounds at all, but though she was doing her best not to listen, she could still make them out. Those were the calls of wolves, long ululations that curdled the blood. She attempted to tell herself that since she had never heard a wolf before, she must have mistaken the sound. It had to be something else.

Even so, she hastened, rubbing her arms for warmth. Once she got home, she would gladly accept her mother's reprimands. She'd even apologise for being late. That way she was sure to be forgiven. Her mother would make her a warm broth and she'd sip it before the fire, which would once again drive warmth inside her.

She had almost reached past the old stables, when wings flapped behind her. Though fear sent her almost running, she craned her neck to see what bird had produced that sound. 

There was nothing behind her. 

Only the path that unfolded towards the wood, the scant moonlight showing its meandering pattern.

Once again Constanta turned around. She continued walking.

She was just being silly, that was what it was. Finally, all the horror stories her parents had told her were catching up with her. She had never been prone to being scared, but now here she was entertaining thoughts even a child would laugh at.

Constanta had almost managed her heart beat, when the sound she'd heard before resurfaced. It was like the beating of wings, like the shifting of air. 

She whipped round. 

She thought she saw a bird of some kind, with a hairy snout and leathery skin. The moment she pinpointed it, however, it disappeared. This time she knew she had seen something. It might be only an inhabitant of the forest, but it had been there. She was seeing no visions. Her senses were serving her right.

Knowing now that something was amiss, she turned so she could hurry home.

A man stood in front of her. He was as pale as curdled milk, and his eyes had the frost of snow about them. He was dressed in black from head to toe, so that in the darkness she could not tell what kind of cut his clothes had. His drapes were, however, musty and smelled of the grave. He looked like a spider and had the savage snarl of the wolf.

He showed Constanta his teeth. She screamed.

Arthur woke with the sun and stretched in bed. He gave himself one minute for relaxing, enjoying the warmth of the room and the give of the mattress, after which he washed and exercised. When he had performed the drills his body was used to, he went and knocked on the Oberartz's door.

The Leutnant had been asleep and looked like he belonged to dreamland more than to their world of toil and strife. His hair stood on hand, his shirt was missing, and his features were puffy with the heaviness of slumber. 

Arthur found the sight not at all unpleasant. There was certainly something disarming about it, something beguiling, as if he was getting in touch with the true nature of the man standing in front of him. He liked this. He enjoyed the sight of the Oberarzt's softer side. But he couldn't make a show of this strange enjoyment; he couldn't let it surface.

So he said what he would have said to any other man caught in the wake of sleep this far past dawn. “Dilly-dallying, are we. I think you've slept enough.”

“Actually, I haven't caught the smallest wink.”

“You turned in at nine.” Arthur definitely remembered the Oberarzt putting a stop to the game of cards Gwen had initiated to entertain them to go and catch some sleep.

“I did.” The Oberarzt squeezed the bridge of his nose. “But I kept having nightmares.”

Arthur started to laugh. “Nightmares? Nightmares scare you that much?”

“No.” There was no hint of humour in Leutnant Emryß' eyes. “But these ones stuck with me.”

Even though Arthur had initially failed to take the Oberarzt's plight seriously, he couldn't do the same now. Although the Leutnant didn't come across as a man of action, he was punctual and thorough, not easily upset by petty difficulties and hardship. He had proven that on their journey over. It was true that Arthur hadn't tested him on the battlefield, but it was equally true he had been conscientious. Whatever had affected the Oberarzt wasn't nothing. Still, Arthur didn't feel ready to address his initial lack of faith. “Are you ready to meet our Szekely nobleman?”

The Leutnant nodded.

The Szekely nobleman lived in a large house at the outskirts of town. Though it was simple by Vienna standards, it was more than substantial by provincial ones. The structure was fully stone, with a wooden deck on the first floor, and solid oak doors. The Lord Gorlois lived in it, together with his wife and daughter.

As the servants told them, the family took their morning repast in the drawing room overlooking the Carpathians. While the lower floors were merely functional, the upper floor had a touch of elegance to it. Carpets covered the floors and silverware adorned all surfaces. Yet these spaces still retained a rural aura. Stuffed animals where on show in several corners, as were other hunting trophies such as deer horns stuck to velvet-backed plaques hung on the walls.

Arthur had seen better in the hunting lodges of the Viennese nobility, but he kept that to himself. He wasn't here to make enemies, but to foster alliances that would help him see his objective through.

The majordomo escorted them into the drawing room. Lord Gorlois stood in front of a renaissance portrait that bore a close resemblance to him, almost as if he had wanted to point his long ancestry. His wife was stitching away at an embroidery pattern that represented the city's colours. A young woman was standing on the balcony, her back to the new arrivals. Her hair was dark as a raven's back and her form was luscious yet lithe. She seemed poised for flight, graceful and feral at the same time.

Having heard them, she turned around. Her eyes were the colour of verdant foliage and emerald stones. They had a depth to them one could get lost in. As she scanned the new arrivals, she held Arthur's gaze in thrall, her own defiant and cocky. 

If Arthur had been so inclined, she was just the kind of woman he would have fallen for. As things stood, he had business to see to. 

He addressed the Szekely lord. “As you must know, we come from Austria.” He gave the Szekely lord one of the private missives he had received in Vienna, indicating the objective of their mission, albeit without the particulars. “We wish to be brought up to speed as to the rumours that have been spread locally, and we thought that you, as a native magnate might help us clarify the situation.”

“Ah,” Lord Gorlois said, scrutinising the paper. “I see what your problem is but, frankly, there's not much you can do about it.”

Arthur and the Oberarzt exchanged glances. They were here to do something. They couldn't go back and say that they'd been entrusted with a task that couldn't be carried out. “Yes, well, Her Majesty evidently thinks that minds can be changed.”

“The people around here are credulous,” Lord Gorlois said. “They have always been and always will be.”

The lady from the balcony walked into the room. Her dress was a glistening emerald green. The bodice showed her cleavage and had loose elbow-length sleeves finished with wide turned-back cuffs. It was made of brocade, with golden threads disappearing into a tracery of symbols that almost looked mystic. The effect was eased by the more traditional cut of her pannier gown. “My father is convinced that you can ignore two thirds of the local population in one fell swoop.”

“What else should be done with them, Morgana?” Creases of displeasure formed at the corners of Lord Gorlois' mouth. “They're good for nothing. They fail to pay their taxes and harbour strange beliefs.”

“They're the heart and soul of this country.” The Lady Morgana tossed her head. “And they're wise in their traditions.”

Lord Gorlois barked out a laugh. “Wise. Ah. They're only canny when it comes to circumventing the law.”

The Lady Morgana's eyes fired. “You're merely prejudiced. That's why you're not listening to them.”

“I'm not listening to them because they endlessly complain about things they're at fault for,” Lord Gorlois said. “And they do indeed spread nonsense abroad.”

Arthur would have intervened, stopped the exchange before it could have become a row, but the Lady Morgana froze him with her auteur.

“You should help them, father,” the Lady Morgana said. “But you don't because you prefer to bask in their position.”

“They're not mine to look out for.” The Szekely magnate looked as if he was at the end of his tether. He was likely only answering his daughter so as not rein her in. “They're Saxons or Romanian or even the children of the occupying Ottomans.”

“How does that change your role?” She indicated her father and then their environment. “You've been placed in a position of leadership, with all the advantages that come from that, but you only reap the rewards and assist only a small slice of the population.”

Lord Gorlois turned his back to his daughter, throwing his hands up in the air. “Is she to treat me thus?” He looked to Arthur and the Oberarzt as for support. “Is she to spit upon everything that I and her forefathers built, in spite of war and occupation?”

The Oberarzt cleared his throat, pink with embarrassment. “That's a very interesting discussion, and I'm sure you'll canvass the subject further, but the government set us a task and we're here for advice as how best to carry it out.”

Shedding his irritation, Lord Gorlois was nodding sympathetically now, as if he thought he had found an ally in the Oberarzt. 

The Lady Morgana snorted, her mien showing her displeasure. 

Arthur was just thankful that the Oberarzt had managed to politely get to the point, so he tried to do the same. “Where should we start?”

“I told you, wherever you start the outcome is going to be the same,” Lord Gorlois said as he watched his daughter stalk out of the room. “But if you're really keen, you can go see Father Athanasius at St Nicholas church.”

“Why him?” Arthur hoped Lord Gorlois wasn't wasting his time.

“Well, he's got the highest number of undead.” Lord Gorlois shrugged.

“Undead?” Oberarzt Emryß knitted his brows. “That's medically impossible.”

“Take it up with the priest.” Going by his expression, Lord Gorlois seemed to be done with them. “He's the one who's deep into these matters.”

Arthur and the Oberarzt were then treated to a hot beverage and sent on their way, with perhaps less of a plan of action than they'd had before.

Morgana was in the garden. It was the only place of the house that afforded her some piece. Here no one came, or only seldom. Her father didn't appreciate nature. It was made for serfs and farmers, he said. They didn't need to dig and saw and turn the soil. Spending time in the open might be good when one was hunting, but nature had little to offer to people of standing. Her mother did what her father wanted her to and was likely to chide Morgana for not adhering to her father's wishes. 

But Morgana liked it here. Despite the season there was beauty to be glimpsed here. The hedges smelt like musk and the gravel shone with the wetness of recent rains. All the flowers were dead and their stems sang mournfully to the wind. A few bunches of calendula were still blooming, snow clumps building up around their roots. 

The maze was old, a whim of an ancestor with a taste for Italian things. It wasn't particularly intricate or fanciful. The hedges had grown uneven and taller. The grass that carpeted it was littered with fallen leaves and pine needles. The top part of the hedge was by no means level, rising in spots where the foliage had grown.

But she loved wandering its length and sitting in the white gazebo that stood at its heart. Oftentimes she just let herself rove, dreaming of bright futures in which she was free to do what she pleased. She liked to tilt her head and looked at the stormy clouds that almost always crowded the sky with awe and reverence. She had always been able to feel the beauty of her environs, to love the place that had given her birth, the roots she shared with those very farmers her father criticised so. They were the only ones who really understood the nature of this place. Those Austrian people, the Szekely even didn't get it. They had little connection with the pulsating heart of this land. The villagers had it right in a way that went beyond science and refined talk.

Morgana entered the maze and walked along its outer margin, pine needles sticking to the soles of her damask slippers. A balmy fragrance filled her nostrils; her fingertips grazed the leaves that made up the hedge. She imagined she could feel the life pulsing in them, the little cosmos a plant was.

She closed her eyes, pushing forwards as she moved, lulling herself into a kind of reverie she liked to think fused her with nature, put her past the pettiness of her daily life, and made of her existence something special.

The wind rose. Her clothes were whimsy, designed for the parlour and drawing room, not for the outdoors. She shivered but she didn't even consider going back to the house. She let instead her senses bask in the peace of this place. She swayed on, feeling the dampness under the soles of her slippers, and the coarse texture of the hedge under her fingertips. The rough breeze blew against her face and through her hair. Her heart beat faster as if the feedback she was getting from the garden was exciting her. 

She placed a hand flat on her breast, trying to come to terms with the wildness of her sensations, but she was distracted by a murmuring that slowly became more and more audible. 

She opened her eyes. The lane of the maze ended in what appeared to be a dead end but wasn't. If you just turned sharply right, a new corridor opened up, as Morgana knew well. Yet something was different about it. It wasn't the shape of the lanes and it wasn't the general air of the location. 

The wind picked up. It eddied around and thanks to the dirt and foliage it picked up she could see all the tiny vortexes coalesce and move about. And in that maelstrom a figure took shape. At first she couldn't tell what it was. Only the contours were traceable. But slowly, as her gaze was transfixed, she became aware of the man standing at the centre of the little whirlwind.

Once her eyes had tacked his form, she was sure. “I know what you are.”

He acknowledged that with a motion of his head. His hair, which was dark and seemingly combed back with oils, didn't stir. “Come to me.” It was a command, yet one spoken with all the self-assurance of a being used to control mortals. “You know it's time. Come to me, Morgana.”

Morgana knew what answer she ought to give. And yet while almost resolved, she wavered.

The church was not as grand as any that Merlin had seen around Vienna, which had its Cathedral and many other religious buildings as well. It wasn't even grand by country standards, considering the rich monasteries and baroque wayside chapels. But it was a solid structure built mostly out of wood. The western wall was painted in bright colours, the images representing a Biblical scene. Though in some spots the bright hues had faded with the centuries, they hadn't in others and the reds and blues fully impacted the eye. Merlin would have stood there contemplating the various figures of saints and sinners but for their need to get cracking.

Merlin and Hauptmann Pendrachen cleared the entrance to the church, the door creaked loudly in their wake. The nave was narrow and flanked by two rows of pews. A black Christ whose features were smudged hung above the altar. Only a circular candle holder provided some light to the premises, which were dark despite the morning hour.

“There's no one here,” Hauptmann Pendrachen said as he looked about.

“Lord Gorlois said we would find Father Athanasius here.” Though most priests nowadays didn't spend much time in their parishes, Merlin didn't think a man of the cloth had much to do in this small village. “I'm sure that if we knock on that door...”

Before Merlin could actually do that, the door opened and an old man in a black cassock emerged. Upon beholding them he raised a wispy eyebrow.

Taking the situation in hand, Hauptmann Pendrachen stepped forward. He introduced them to the priest and told him what they were there for. 

At mention of the Queen, Father Athanasius mumbled a blessing and became more attentive to what they had to say. Even so when they mentioned the specific reason for their presence he baulked. “But what does that mean?” Father Athanasius was babbling by now. “How can you prove the villagers wrong? How can you change their minds?”

As a doctor, Merlin was the one who needed to answer that. “By providing incontrovertible proof of their delusions.”

With his raised eyebrow and uncertain expression, Father Athanasius appeared as sceptical as the moment before. “I don't think that's possible at all.”

“How so?” Hauptmann Pendrachen's voice was dry and to the point. He had a task and wanted to get things done.

“Well, they believe in these tales because they're age old.” Father Athanasius shrugged. “Their grandfathers told them to their fathers who told their grandchildren in their turns. It's how things work here and your new-fangled science won't help.”

Merlin was about to intervene, but Pendrachen did it for him. “I don't think vampires are mentioned in the Bible at all. As a man of the cloth, father, shouldn't you feel duty bound to persuade them of the error of their ways?”

Father Athanasius took off the rivet spectacles he was wearing perched at the end of his nose and cleaned them, as if that would supply him with the clarity of thought needed to explain himself to strangers. “I'm wary of their talk of monsters, but I must say the Bible does make a case for the presence of evil.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen looked confused while Merlin thought he'd guessed what the Priest meant. 

Confirmation came when Father Athanasius said, “The Bible doesn't mention vấrcolaci, it is true, but it speaks of the devil.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen laughed and his laughter echoed among the four walls of the small rural church. “You surely don't think-”

“That the devil is at large in this region?” Father Athanasius looked reproachingly at the Hauptmann. “I don't necessarily, but you never know.”

Further discussion of matters of religion wasn't going to help them, Merlin felt. A man of the cloth was already prone to believe in mystical truths. Vampires were just a step further away. No, bringing Father Athanasius round to their way of thinking wasn't going to work. To start with, they merely needed him to cooperate. “Yes, indeed,” Merlin said. “Evil is around, but these vampires-”

“The strigoi and vấrcolaci, you mean...” Father Athanasius had seen fit to cut him off.

“Yes, them.” Merlin gestured amply with his hands. “We both know they don't exist and we do need to make sure the populace knows.”

“Locals fear the vấrcolaci,” Father Athanasius said. “How could you possibly change their minds about them.”

Merlin found answering this question easy. “By proving that the deaths they ascribe to vampirism are but natural occurrences.”

“But how.” Father Athanasius tilted his head, appearing genuinely at a loss to figure out how.

Hauptmann Pendrachen looked to Merlin, a gesture of almost camaraderie, for they both knew what he was about to say. 

“By conducting autopsies on the corpses of those thought to have died at the hands of vampires.”

Father Athanasius' eyes rounded with horror and his mouth opened in denial. The first words he sputtered made no sense at all; he only managed to convey his general indignation at the notion. As he found his breath, he also spoke more intelligibly. “I can't allow that. The bodies of those interred shouldn't be disturbed.”

While autopsies in Vienna had become quite commonplace, the same wasn't true of rural outposts. Merlin had to tread carefully. “I understand your position, Father, yet--”

“The bodies of the dead shouldn't be desecrated,” Father Athanasius said, firmly shaking his head. “I won't have it.”

Merlin simply didn't see how he could prove that no person had been killed by a vampire without touching their bodies. “I--”

Hauptmann Pendrachen flashed him a furtive smile that made his eyes gleam, before addressing the Priest. “You specifically mentioned buried bodies, Father. How about those awaiting?”

Merlin saw his chance and seized it. “Conducting a post-mortem isn't against the church's tenets.”

Father Athanasius clearly had qualms about it. He had gone rather red in the face and he attempted several times to speak while stuttering all the time. 

Before he could get himself more worked up, Merlin spoke on. “It's been like that since the Dark Ages. In the University of Bologna, they've been dissecting corpses ever since then.”

“But Pope Boniface VIII forbade the manipulation of corpses in the--”

“The church has approved of the teaching of anatomy for at least three centuries.” Merlin had reason to know; he'd studied all this and was conscious of the progress the teaching of medicine had gone through. “Vesalius and Harvey have shown us the way and the law doesn't forbid the practice.”

Father Athanasius didn't look too convinced. Hauptmann Pendrachen jumped back into the conversation. “The Queen wills it.”

With a sigh, Father Athanasius seemed to accept the necessity of an autopsy. 

Merlin prepared himself to prove there were no supernatural goings on in Transylvania.

The wolf was burrowing in its den, her pups sleeping beside her in their hole in the ground, when she heard the call. This call wasn't the long ululation other wolves used to send messages to other members of the pack and it wasn't a territory claim on the part of an encroaching animal. It wasn't the clap of thunder nor the roaring of the river. It wasn't any of the sounds she was used to hearing. And yet she knew it. So she slid out of the den, stood on her four legs, her sable fur shining in the moonlight, and bayed loudly.

The wind picked up, clouds covered the moon, and the forest darkened. Though fear shook her and she snarled, she took a few steps forwards. She listened for the sounds of the forest, for the yowls of her pack, but none of its members made a noise. Even the forest seemed to speak in a different voice. 

The trees whispered in a different register, like a warning song, a mourning lullaby. Leaves shook in the sudden breeze. Owls hooted in alarm and hermit thrushes stopped their song and took off.

Pools of blackness spread around, enveloping wider and wider patches of forest, as if no light came from above the treetops. As if the moon had been swallowed by the night.

The wolf's hackles stiffened and she snarled, her fangs out for show, a dire warning to whoever wanted to hurt her or pups. For good measure she snapped at the air. She was ready to attack, bite, kill. Her spine taut, she was ready to flee.

Though her pups called for her with lamentable cries, she stood her ground.

And then she saw the creature. Her eyes were keen, her hearing equally so. She should have spotted the invader long before this. But somehow the creature had escaped her detection.

She needed to get rid of this threat, so she growled. 

But the creature advanced. Wolves had learnt to stay away from humans, to flee from their sight and hide away from their enclaves. But the creature wasn't human, that she knew in the same way she had known to find her mate and how to raise her pups. It was an instinct that sang through her veins, that was part of her very nature.

Fear made her whine, made her arch her spine. This creature, she could tell, was powerful. More, this creature was her kin. There was something about it that made it like a wolf, and yet unlike it. If she had been facing another wolf, she would have chased it out of her territory. If it was kin, she would have welcomed it in the pack. But this creature was different.

The creature held a hand out and noise filled the forest. The panicked cries of all the animals that inhabited it rose together with the gale the swept it. Curlews and lapwings took to the skies. Deer fled, running away from the threat. Ants swarmed into their anthills.

The wolf stood to attention. She didn't want to. She wanted to do what the other animals were doing. She wanted to find safety for herself and her young, but something compelled her to stay.

It was the creature's magnetic gaze and its command of the secret language of wolves. It was its power and its hold on her will. 

There was something about it that made the wolf move towards it and when it commanded her, she cowered and acquiesced. The creature's will would be done.

Gwen called out to her father and closed the door behind her. She crossed the familiar square with its half-timbered houses and took the downwards sloping road that led out of the village. On her way she greeted her acquaintances. Some of them were young women living in the neighbouring houses, hurrying to their dwellings now that night had descended, though most of them were workers on their way back home. The latter would make a show of not hurrying, keeping their pace regular and even, thought there was something about the way they increased their marching tempo when they thought no one was watching that spoke of their fear.

Because she had been born in Brasov, Gwen was used to this. Fear lurked in the hearts of all inhabitants. The ways they went about hiding it differed, but it was there all the same. It was in the comments they made, in the precautions they took, and their actions when night fell.

Though Gwen felt some of the same fear herself – she had, after all, heard all the stories her compatriots had heard –, she needed to make herself act normally. Firstly, she didn't want to run scared all her life and secondly she had things to do.

With three new guests to care for, she needed more water. Dishes had to be rinsed, the floors had to be cleaned and her guests shirts would need to be washed. Not to mention the pailfuls needed by her father in the smithy. 

Though her guests hadn't returned yet, she figured they would need her attention soon. She had already prepared part of their dinner. Her onion soup only needed to be warmed and she had made fresh bread and baked biscuits. With a few more cold dishes they would be set. That she had seen to. But they would need to wash before going to bed and there was precious little water left. 

She couldn't let the name of her inn – though people mostly knew it as the blacksmith's place – be blackened by rumours of lacking water and missing service. 

Even so she had to admit to she wasn't quite as keen to go out as she was by morning. The day had unfortunately almost come to an end and though the path was brightened by moonshine, she wished she hadn't had to come this way.

By day the river, or rather the canal branch that skirted closest to the village, flowed merrily and almost all the women in Brasov gathered by its shores to do their laundry and gossip.

But it was exactly the nature of that gossip that was making her reticent to get close by nightfall. A few days before her guests had arrived there had been another disappearance. Granted, it had been the vagabond on whose path the town often lay. Usually, they saw him every two weeks, but it had been five since they'd last seen him. And then there was the old father-in-law in the Dumitrescu clan. He'd gone to sleep in fine fettle and then...

She shook her head. This was silly. There had to be an explanation for everything. And even if there wasn't and all the folklore was true, that didn't mean this path was dangerous or that something horrid was going to befall her tonight.

As a matter of fact, the road, though winding and empty, was easy to see thanks to the bright moonlight that painted everything silver. She could easily follow the track ahead, both because she knew it by heart, and because everything was fully visible.

Braced, she continued on. A few more minutes and she would be there. She even made herself walk faster so that she could be done. Surely, that wasn't a sign of fear. 

Twigs snapping under her shoes. She continued on, till she could see the canal meandering ahead, making for the forest, which, in the distance, unrolled dark and primal. 

She had almost readied her pail, when a gust of wind rose. Leaves from overhanging branches showered over her. Wind pierced her layers of clothing, and she adjust her shawl. She dropped the empty pail and as she made to recover it, the wind pushed it further away. Cold and uneasy, she made to get it back, but once again a draught of air coming out of the dark forest thrust it away.

“Oh, curse it,” she said, vapour drifting out of her mouth with the drop in temperature.

Bending over, she grabbed the pail by its metal handle and straightened. “I shouldn't believe in that dross,” she told herself. “I've never seen a...” She had meant to say the name aloud, but at the last moment refrained. “So even if they exist, they must hide away in their lairs and almost never emerge.”

She had reached the canal, water splashing as it flowed, when she heard an ominous sound proceed from the other bank. Though the forest proper extended its reach only further away, there was a thick and shadowy copse on that side of the water course. 

Thick and thin branches interlocked. Equally skeletal trunks vied for space with their neighbours, whose bark was eaten away by pale fungal growths that extended well past a man’s height. The grass at their base looked like a grey pool at night, while the far forest was as silvery as a precious locket. 

It was a beautiful spot, but it was lonesome and eerie. By day it looked far better, with the morning light playing on the surface and painting treetops golden. 

Gwen had just lowered the pail to catch some water into it, when a loud noise rose from the nearest copse. She stopped doing what she had been intent on and looked up. She tried to establish where the sound was coming from, but it seemed impossible. It appeared to have no source, to only be some kind of great cacophony.

Something in her recoiled and she let go of the pail. The cold bowled her over just as the sounds made her lose her bearings. It was as if she had stepped into another world, one that she did not know. Though she was afraid, she listened to the noise, as if to verify there was nothing strange in it.

And yet, the more she listened the more she understood that there was nothing natural about the vibrations that rent the air. They shook the ground under her feet, affected the flow of the water in the canal and made her ears echo with them.

She needed to be back. Surely the noise had nothing to do with the wild creatures of legend that populated the night, but even so she didn't want to stay to find out. 

Her soles wet from the water of the canal, she made one last ditch effort to recover the pail. But just as she had reached the handle, a colony of bats flew out of the copse. There were so many of them they were like a solid wall.They batted their wings and showed their small fangs, screeching to each other.

She had never seen so many and had never known them to move in such close knit formation. Their eyes glinted in the dark, their wings seemed to expand with each motion, and more worryingly still it looked like they were making for her en masse.

Gwen screamed and recoil, letting go of the pail.

She backed away, but she stumble on some of the pebbles that lay by the side of the canal. Cold water soaked the skirt of her dress, making her shiver, but not as much as the cloud of bats swarming in front of her.

They seemed to converge, one moving closer to anther, forming a quasi human shape. The contours of it resembled the outline of a giant, with preposterously wide shoulders, and a head tilted to the side.

Of course, this couldn't be, but Gwen screamed herself hoarse.

The shape shrunk, but retained its almost human likeness, two yellow eyes peering out of the crowd of bats.

Heart beating, fast and unable to pick herself up, Gwen crawled backwards.Her screams resounded along the canal basin. Facing this danger, her thoughts dissolved, and she acted on pure instinct, inching away from the threat. But because she was so shaken, she couldn't quite get to her feet and run, as she wanted to.

Still stuck, she did the first thing that occurred to her. With a yell, she hurled a stone at the bat formation. 

It dissolved for a few moments, just before assembling again into a more ominous manly form. It moved her way, swarming towards her.

Her heart was about to give way, when she heard the sound of wheels on gravel. The terror that had her in its grip almost made her ignore the commotion, but something deep inside her made her look. Not too far ahead, a cart rigged up with lanterns was proceeding in her direction. At its sides two youths were walking while the driver tried to get his donkeys to behave. Behind this vehicle a caravan moved. The windows of the other conveyances were covered by fabric of different hues that stood out even at night. 

Seeing the caravans buoyed Gwen and the bats didn't seem quite as scary any more. She thought she recognised this troupe. They were a company of Sinti travellers who had often stayed in the area. Now that they were coming closer she even recognised their driver. His name was Grappelli and he had a hunting knife that he brought to Gwen's father from time to time. He always said the world was a dangerous place.

Having seen them, Gwen called out to them. 

Grappelli held a hand up in salute and spurred his donkeys. The two youths who had been escorting the caravan raced up to her. 

By the time she was surrounded by the Sinti group, the cloud of bats had dispersed and only a few specimens darted about the night sky.

“What's happened?” one of the youths asked her, when they realised the skirt of her dress was muddy and that she was breathless. “We heard you scream.”

A quick look around told Gwen there were no more sources of danger. In fact, the area around the canal was so quiet now that she started doubting she had seen what she thought she had seen. There had been so many and they had come together to form such a telling shape. And yet they were no longer here. Could they really have had a will of their own? “Oh, yes, I saw bats. They scared me.”

The second youth repeated her answer to Grappelli, who had stopped the cart and come shuffling towards them. 

“Bats are wicked creatures,” Grappelli said, scanning the area for any danger. “You shouldn't trust them.”

Now that she was in company and all traces of those frightening winged creatures was gone, Gwen was inclined to think she had just been silly. Like most in the Siebenbürgen area she had had her head filled with strange tales of the uncanny. They must have influenced her, made her more susceptible to fear. “I'm sure they meant me no harm.” After all no bat ever ate a person that she knew of. “I just don't like them a lot, as uncharitable as it is.”

“Still, we'll escort you home.” Grappelli once again made sure there was no threat around. He seemed to believe there was and kept being wary. “And make sure you get there safe and sound.”

Gwen didn’tn't think it fair to condemn Grappelli for his cautious attitude when, up to a few minutes before, she had been scared out of her wits herself. So she accepted with a curtsy and before she knew it she had been whisked onto the cart, where she sat next to Grappelli, headed home with a pail full of water.

Oberarzt Emryß had spent more than an hour with his hands deep in the cadaver's entrails. He'd taken out organs and cut veins and arteries. He'd incised the scalp and poked around the chest cavity. 

Though Arthur was a soldier and, as such, used to carnage and bloodshed, the whole operation had filled him with disgust. Though he was sadly used to bodies left to rot on the battlefield, he couldn't say he didn't prefer dignified funerals, proper send-offs. While he didn't believe God would frown upon the performance of post-mortems, he still thought it better if you could die without the indignity. 

What got to him wasn't the way the Oberarzt went about his duties. Arthur could see he was conscientious and thorough. There was something about him that spoke of care and skill. The doctor was dexterous and sure about what he did. If anything, Arthur realised he'd undervalued the man when he'd first seen him. In him Arthur had seen a weak officer, one who couldn't possibly conduct himself with much honour on the field. Instead he had his own area of expertise. If Arthur was ever wounded in battle, or worse should he be about to draw his last breath, he wished he had a doctor like the Oberarzt to assist him.

No, what got to him were his own feelings of nausea and repulsion. Though he'd seen his share of dead men, this was different. This made him queasy. Even if he made himself look and follow Oberarzt Emryß' every gesture, he couldn't say he wasn't feeling queasy. 

If left to himself, he'd have gone outside and liberally got rid of the contents of his stomach. But with the Oberarzt watching, he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't give him the wrong impression. Arthur was an officer, a strong man used to the rigours of war. He wouldn't act like a weakling, someone who ran scared of the realities of life.

Still he wished he could open a window or fan himself. Neither of the two actions was possible, otherwise Arthur would alert the Oberarzt to his current sate. Arthur would not be embarrassed, not before this man, whom Arthur stood in debt towards for his past misconception of him.

Oberarzt Emryß had just washed his hands and was in the process of sewing the body back up when Arthur saw him shake his head.

“What?” Arthur asked, gulping down on the wave of nausea that overtook him. “Is something wrong with the corpse.”

Oberarzt Emryß looked up from his cadaver and said, “This man didn't die of haemorrhage, I can tell you thatt .”

“What did he die of then?” If this person here hadn't died from the bite of a vampire – which in and of itself was absurd – then they were closer to proving that no deaths were linked to monsters and that such creatures didn't exist. If they did this, then Arthur was one step closer to returning to the battlefield. 

“He wasn't all right, that's for sure,” Oberarzt Emryß said. “He had a rash on his face, lips, and feet, as you can see.”

Arthur wasn't exactly looking attentively, but he nodded all the same. 

“The skin is very flaky in all those areas. I bet they must have itched and burned.” Oberarzt Emryß' eyes were full of compassion as he gazed at his subject. “The gastrointestinal tract is also inflamed.”

“So what did he die of?” Arthur asked. “An upset stomach?”

Oberarzt Emryß arched an eyebrow. “I can't be certain, but there's a pathology a Spanish doctor called Gaspard Casal researched, a disease that causes symptoms just as this man exhibited. The factors that contribute to it are a poor diet and atmospheric influences. Dr Casal hasn't published his findings, but some of his papers have circulated in the medical community.” Emryß put down his instruments. “And I think this is the same syndrome.”

“So no vampires here?” Arthur just wanted to verify, so he knew what to do. 

“I don't think so, no.” The Oberarzt finished sewing up his corpse. When he was done, he covered it with a white linen sheet. “I think the cause that led this man to his death were very natural.”

“So this poor sod just ate bad food and that happened to him.” Arthur was considering revising his diet. 

“I wouldn't put it exactly like that,” Emryß said. “Think about the calendar. We're in the period of fasting leading up to Christmas.” Since this was a small room attached to the sacristy, there were already some early Nativity ornaments around. “This man's already lacking diet became even more meagre, leading to a worsening of his symptoms and consequent death.”

“Well.” Arthur drew a breath of relief. Things were going the way he'd expected them to. “Let's just convince the Priest of this.”

The sun was setting. Mihai's large spade weighed heavily on his shoulders, and his stomach was too light for him to bear the trek back home without pangs of hunger. Alas, that was the curse of the daily labourer. Labourers toiled hard on land that wasn't theirs and were left to scrape for themselves afterwards. 

Mihai was used to that. He had been raised knowing he would work hard and die young because of all the back-breaking labour. So he didn't complain about that. There would be no point since that was the common lot of people like him. Now he only longed for a few hours of repose before the next dawn.

Boots sinking deep in the mud, he went up the knoll that marked the border of the village of Rasnov. Though he worked the fields around Brasov – this year he'd been working for farmer Cocea – he still lived in his hut, the one where he'd been born. 

It wasn't easy going; the path was for the most part steep and wound around Rasnov, thus going without the paved tracts of road, but it was a road Mihai knew well. It was the road home. He would never leave home. His mother and father had died in it. There were crosses close to his backyard that marked the place where they had been put to rest. And his dear Irina – he had found her there, hadn't he, wan and frail, her lips blue and her eyes lifeless. And when her eyelashes had flickered, he'd done what ought to be done.

The image still engraved in his memory made him overflow with bitterness. To shake it off, he stepped his pace up, so he could only concentrate on the working of his tired muscles, and the in and out of his breath. 

Ever since the colder weather had hit, it misted up in the air, a ghostly halo that made him think of revenant souls. The world itself seemed to have geared up for the dark days ahead. Nature had turned grey, the grass, the leaves on the trees, the twilight sky. Everything was sombre; everything alluded to the long winters that were coming. Though snow hadn't fallen yet, it would quite soon, in the meanwhile nature slept. Squirrels and bears were hibernating, most birds had already migrated, and other animals had prepared for the dearth of food the season ahead would bring.

The approach to the front of the hut he called home was by a winding path around the wider point of the hill that terminated in the old fortifications of Ransov. Fields stretched further ahead, but before they did, Mihai's home had to be passed. 

Mihai had almost reached his hut, which stood in a clearing at the back of which a couple of wispy trees. There had been many more once, but his grandfather had chopped them down to build the hut itself. All four walls had been carefully put together with the logs chinked with mud and moss. The roof was shingled, the rafters adhering close together. 

Though the place was simple Mihai was still proud of it. It was the one thing he still had: a refuge his clan had maintained for decades. 

As he did every evening, he entered the hut. Inside it was crowded with a double bed, which these days was too large, a table, a chair and a couple of clumsy stools. 

Now that he was inside, Mihai put down his spade and the burlap sack he'd been carrying. It contained the little food he'd been given that would be tonight's supper. He was putting the apples in the closest bowl when he heard the noise.

It was a long creak, as if someone had put weight on one of the floorboards. Mihai didn't turn around. The hut was old and the wind entering its chinks was enough to make it sing.

Standing in place, Mihai removed his heavy boots. The soles were lined with mud from the fields he'd worked. Since it had caked, it fell off in clumps. He was about to put his boots in the corner, when he once again detected the sound.

It had a different quality now. It was prolonged, and it seemed to come from a closer source. 

This time he pivoted. 

The hut was cloaked in shadow. The light outside had almost fully died so none reflected inside. Usually, Mihai went about his place with ease. He knew every nook and cranny. He was so used to the geography of his home, he could see even in the deepest shadows. But this time he couldn't. It was as if he was staring into an abyss, as if the contours of the objects filling his home had dissolved.

Mihai's blood ran cold well before he called out, “Who's there?”

Even the thinnest shaft of light penetrating through the square window extinguished itself.

Mihai could make out movement now, feel it in the air. The floor kept on moaning. “I'm armed,” he said, thinking of the spade he'd brought home from work. “And there's nothing to steal.”

There was a hiss, and then he saw her. She had once been a girl, but she was so pale and her eyes were such a dark block of colour, Mihai knew she was no such thing any more. She still bore the marks of her death in the shape of two puncture wounds on the neck. She even held her head to the side as if the injury still hurt her. But it didn't.

It didn't because she was dead. She was of the strigoi, she was vârcolac. She was moroi. 

“Of course,” he said, the words meant for himself alone. “Irina invited you.”

In response, she hissed, showing preternaturally sharp canines that proved she was no longer human. She was hungry; she was on the prowl.

Perhaps Mihai could still get out of this. She was new and thus still weak. She wasn't a seasoned hunter, and her powers to control the elements were minor. While the odds weren't entirely in Mihai's favour, there was a chance he could make it. 

But then a sort of glow silvered the room. It didn't come from outside and it didn't emanate from any artificial source. It just showed for the smallest part of a moment the third occupant of the room.

“It's you,” Mihai said, crossing himself. The interlopers recoiled, but Mihai knew that wouldn't ward them off for long. “The Prince of Darkness.”

The Prince of Darkness smirked; he had, after all, the upper hand. 

Just before the attack, Mihai held his breath.

The house was such as a well-off farmer might occupy. The structure was modest but clean, and the rooms were spacious and well-aired. The parlour they were ushered into, after they passed a front room and a fully stocked kitchen, was comfortable in its simplicity. It had several chairs and settees, window seats and little embrasure you could sit in. All around markers of piety were scattered. There was a crucifix in the kitchen and one in the parlour. Rosaries lay on tables next to little statuettes of the saints. A battered copy of the Bible missing its back cover was the only book in the house.

Merlin sat opposite Farmer Gherea while Hauptmann Pendrachen took the chair next to Merlin's.

Pendrachen was the first to speak. “Father Athanasius sent us here.”

Farmer Gherea didn't hide his confusion at all. “With all due respect to Father Athanasius...” The farmer crossed himself and muttered a blessing. “...I don't see why he should send two officers from Vienna to me. I've paid all my taxes.”

“We have no doubt.” They needed Farmer Gherea to cooperate, Merlin thought. It was better if they didn't ostracise him right at the start. “It's on a matter of public health, so to speak.”

Farmer Gherea looked more at a loss then before. Now he was close to gaping. He called out to his wife, who was moving in the direction of the kitchen with a cleaning rag in her hand. “Drea, have we done something we oughtn't?”

“What are you talking about?” the young wife asked. “I've things to do and your silly questions don't help me clean the house or prepare dinner, do they?” 

Farmer Gherea tried to object to his wife's answer, but she had already clopped back into the kitchen, so he once again faced Merlin and the Hauptmann. “I don't totally understand why you're here.”

Merlin sighed and tried to explain it in the easiest of terms. “Father Athanasius recommended we talk to you because you skipped church quite a few times in the past few weeks.”

Farmer Gherea blanched. “You won't put me to the question because of that, will you?” He muttered the first few words of a Romanian prayer. “I'm a faithful believer.”

“We don't doubt that.”As he took over from him, Hauptmann Pendrachen sent Merlin a complicit glance. “We're not here to question or torture you. This is the eighteenth century, for God's sake.”

“Indeed, we're just here to clear up a certain matter,” Merlin said as agreeably as he could. He didn't want the farmer to fear him. He wouldn't collaborate if he did. Worse, if the news spread they wanted to question as in the old days, no one would speak candidly and then their mission would be ruined. “Father Athanasius said you went up to him with a problem of a rather unusual nature. You said you were attacked by a vârcolac.”

Farmer Gherea's lips moved quickly in a litany of prayers and mutterings meant to ward off evil. He made a series of propitiatory gestures Merlin only half understood, and started speaking, hurriedly jumbling words. When he became clearer, he said, “While I didn't speak of it during confession, I spoke to Father Athanasius in the strictest confidence.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen half rolled his eyes, but his facial moues went largely ignored by Farmer Gherea. “And this isn't going further. We'll uphold that confidence.”

That seemed to help Farmer Gherea. At least he calmed down. But before he was fully at peace, he called his wife. She came dragging her clogs, with the same rag in her hand that she had held before. Farmer Gherea's eyes brightened at sight of Drea. He told her why Merlin and the Hauptmann where there, and at last asked, “Should I tell them?” He looked at them sideways, acting as if they couldn't hear what he was saying. “Should I trust them with this?”

Drea studied them briefly, simply flipping her glance from one of them to the other. She mustn't have been one for deep reflection, because before long she said, “I think you should.”

“We come on behalf of Queen Maria Theresa.” Hauptmann Pendrachen puffed his chest out as he mentioned of Her Majesty.

“That clinches it, Ionuţ,” Drea said. “You must tell these officers.”

Farmer Gherea was emboldened by his wife's words. He sat straighter, his slight paunch disappearing. He started talking in a quiet but decisive tone. “I've been confined home for a while. I've only recently shifted my quarters from the bed to this comfortable armchair.”

Merlin shifted his focus to the medical situation. “Why is that?” Men in their prime like Farmer Gherea didn't just lay themselves out while there was so much to do on the farm. They must have a reason for that choice. “Have you felt poorly?”

“Yes, yes.” He nodded to himself. “That's the truth of the matter.”

His wife scoffed. 

He glowered at her and reprised. “It's not been the same. That's it. I'm not the man I used to be.”

“If you're in pain,” Merlin asked, “where are you hurting?”

Farmer Gherea ran his hand about the whole length of his torso, massaging himself to soothe a diffuse pain. “My heart hurts.”

Given the motion of Farmer Gherea's hands, Merlin had an intuition. “And where's your heart?”

Farmer Gherea was thrown by the question. He looked to his wife for suggestions, but she shrugged. After some vague gesticulation, he pointed to his stomach area. “Such pains.”

“I see,” Merlin said, not committing to any comment until he had seen clearer in this. “Have you had any other health problem you connect to supernatural visitations?”

Drea put a had on Farmer Gherea's shoulder, and he spoke. “Yes, indeed. Lately I haven't been able to sleep much.”

Merlin was starting to see where this was going. “To what reasons do you attribute this sleeplessness of yours?”

“Well, I see them.” 

Merlin blinked, not sure he understood the farmer. Maybe he had failed to do so because Farmer Gherea spoke with a thick local accent, maybe he had grown distracted. “What is it that you see?”

“The Moroi,” Gherea said, spurred on by his wife's gesture. “I hear him whispering from the wardrobe and I see his pale face in the burnished mirror.”

“So you see this at night?” Merlin tried prompt clear answers out of this man. “I suppose you turn out the light when you go to sleep.”

Drea answered for him, “We do.”

“Then how do you see this monster of yours?” Merlin made as if he hadn't seen the Hauptmann's approving glance at the probing question.”

“I... I don't know.” Gherea scratched at his face. “I just knew the moroi was there.”

Hauptmann Pendrachen cleared his throat, thus getting everyone's attention. “Did you see it too, Doamnă Drea?”

Drea lowered her eyes, which kept tracking the design on the woollen carpet at her feet. “No, I can't say that I did myself.”

Merlin picked up where the Hauptmann left off. “And what visage did this moroi have?”

“Well,” Farmer Gherea said, sounding not quite entirely sure. “He looked awfully like old Domnul Mateescu, who passed away at the end of summer.”

Daegal was waiting for them outside the farm. He was standing under a drooping tree, with the bridle of his own horse in his hand. The other two mounts had been tied to the wooden fence that separated the farm's front garden from the communal road. 

“So how was it?” Daegal asked, looking worried and drained of colour. The stay in Transylvania was doing him no good. He now had bags under his eyes and he had taken to fidgeting and being startled easily. “Did you prove the case specious?”

“In my professional opinion, yes,” Merlin hurried to say so as to calm his adjutant. “Farmer Gherea has stomach problems, which are making him an insomniac.”

“I may not be a doctor like the Oberarzt here.” Hauptmann Pendrachen laid his hand on Merlin's shoulder. It was the first time he had deliberately touched him. “But I can tell a delusional man when I see one.”

“He may not have been entirely delusional.” As flustered as Merlin momentarily felt by Pendrachen's touch, he had to be objective as to the patient's complaints. “Some gastrointestinal diseases as well as certain lacking diets can cause hallucinations.”

“And there we have it.” Pendrachen winked at Merlin. “We're acting according to plan. We're proving there's no such things as vampires and soon we'll be rid of Transylvania.”

As they mounted on horseback, a bird out in the wild called out its mournful song.

Morgana hadn't really gone to church. She had said she would, but she had had no intention to from the start. Father Athanasius was no more than a moron in a cassock, and she had no inclination to listen to his tirades about meekness and the place of women in society. According to him there were only two classes of ladies: wives and mothers; and unmarried spinsters who helped with the affairs of the church. His view of their lives involved a lot of staying at home, knitting, and praying. 

She was not made for such a life. It had no far-ranging scope, no diversity, no grandiose outlook. She wanted a lot from life and she didn't want to suit her ways to those of the church and neighbourhood. She had been in no mood for any more sermons.

Besides, just as she'd walked up the avenue leading to the church, she'd felt faint and sick. Beads of cold perspiration had broken on her skin. She had had to lean against the turnstile and wait for the wave of vertigo and queasiness to pass. Normally, Morgana didn't fall ill. Even as a child she had enjoyed good health; her constitution had been formidable – and most unladylike. Not for her to complain about cold and headaches, not for her to require cold compresses and smelling salts.

But she hadn't been able to make herself go any nearer the building. She meant to pretend to go there, to be seen around the premises, so the gossips could report to her parents that she'd been there. But that plan was scuppered. She had turned around and made for the lanes that went around the centre of Brasov and skirted the forest.

The path was studded with silver trees that threw shadow over it. They grew crookedly, bent out of shape by their own century-old weight. They crawled uphill, their fronds colouring the environs in the darkest shades of green. In summer locals tapped these trees for their sap, which went into all manner of sweets and beverages, but these day the area was unfrequented and desolate.

The forest, not too far off, murmured with the life that pulsed in it, dark heart that had always been part of the principality. 

Here it was colder than in the wider streets of Brasov, so Morgana better draped her black shawl around herself. And though warmth didn't work through her, she did feel better than she had when pretending to visit the church.

Comforted by this, she walked on. Gravel crunched underfoot and her hands were pale from the blistering cold  
She crossed a bridge that arched over a rumbling torrent and came close to a lane that went deeper into the forest. 

It was such a shadowy spot it might as well have been night. The track lay in sombre darkness, overarching bare branches framing it. And in the mists a pair of yellow eyes focused on her.

Her breath quickened. 

She knew who those eyes belonged to. She had no shadow of a doubt. Emboldened by her own fearlessness, she strode towards them. 

The closer she reached this shadowy spot, the clearer she could see. 

He stooped over the body of a young woman wearing long tresses and shepherdess garb. Down her neck rivulets of burgundy blood flowed, staining her wax-like skin with a patina of life. Her lids fluttered, but her limbs lay in the abandon of near death. 

“Stop that!” she said, though she understood what the situation was. “She still has a chance!”

He did stop, the side of his mouth smeared with blood. “Some have to die and nothing can be done about it.”

“But...” She touched her own neck, knowing the gesture to be silly and beneath her. She didn't know what to say. She had known, of course. But being presented with the truth of it felt different. What was she supposed to do with this information. How was she supposed to react? A lady like her wasn't meant to land in a situation like this. What was more, she had no compass to compare this to. Her own sense of morality was being challenged. But was it her own or the one that had gone with her education. Should she renounce it all? Should her actions stop to fit that mould? She had always thought that she should reject conventions. To hell with them. So now all she had to do was embrace her wilder side. “Well, I thought you could show her mercy. But if you can't, then so be it.”

He didn't speak, for, after all, she knew what he'd say. He was merciful, at least, in the way he cut short her life. One final and deeper puncture. She subsided with no struggle, her body drained of life. 

When he was done, he lay her down with the same gentleness he'd used in killing her. It was a trait she hadn't thought him capable of, but apparently there was still so much she ignored about these creatures. 

Leaving the corpse of the girl behind, he stalked towards her, but stopped where sunshine still lapped at the borders of the forest. Moving, he looked every inch the creature of mystery that he was. Static, however, he appeared more and more like a hidden predator. “Their deaths are necessary to our kind.” His voice sounded rusty, unused to talking, for his kind had other ways of communicating. “We can't turn everyone. There's no necessity and humans... they'd hunt us.”

They were feared and shunned already as it was. Morgana had heard enough popular lore to last her a lifetime. In times of famine, when even the animals in the forest could find no sustenance, Transylvanians went on witch hunts, trying to find the moroi among them. It was true that the real vârcolaci preyed more upon the inhabitants of the Siebenbürgen at those times, but the response had always struck Morgana as both violent and ignorant. If they were to chase away everything that didn't fit, then no one had a right to live in the Brasov area. “I do see that.”

“Then you know that this is how it is to be.” His words were punctuated by a chorus of wolves.

She could almost feel them, sense them in the wild of the damp forest. But she ignored that sensation in favour of more pressing matters. “There are soldiers in town.” Hadn't she spoken with them, wasn't she wise as to some of their plans. “They aim to prove you don't exist.”

He looked away, his pupil taking a vertical shape and glinting ferally. 

She continued, for at this point she was duty bound to. “Once they realise they're wrong...” She scoffed at their world view. They thought the world obeyed their facile rules, that everything could be explained away with their man-made theories. Science and reason ignored the instinctive rulings of the heart and soul, made little of her world from which serious books had been banned, for her fragile female head might be turned. Ah. They were wilfully blind. “And they will, because there will be proof, then you're going to be in danger.”

Now that twilight had taken over, he prowled over to her, touching her cheek, her neck in the place that still hurt. “The vârcolac is as old as man. He is as old as those mountains...” He referred to the Carpathians that, though invisible at dusk, ringed the town. “I've lived for centuries.”

“That doesn't mean you shouldn't be afraid.” She was so often afraid. She had been afraid for her future ever since she was a little girl. Who would she be married of to? Would she ever be free? Could she ever be happy? And she was afraid now this new chapter in her life had opened. There was wisdom in fear. It gave you the power to oppose your enemies, to counteract them. “We're not in the Dark Ages any more. Men will find ways to compel nature to follow their ways, and creatures like the Vârcolac aren't part of their design. They'll drive you to extinction.”

“Nature will rebel their dominion.” He spread his arms out, indicating his kingdom, this Carpathian region that had known so much strife and bloodshed, which had been ruled by Germans, Turks, Austrians. “And if we're to go extinct, then so be it.”

“So you will do nothing!” She wished her voice hadn't risen, that she had shown as much calm as the Lord of the Vârcolaci. 

“I didn't say that.” His lips didn't move, but it seemed to her that he had smiled nonetheless. “I have plans for them.”

Though he didn't utter them, she heard them in her mind. And she didn't only hear the words, spoken in the soft, sibilant voice of the Prince of Darkness, but she also saw what he himself had seen in his mind's eye, she could picture the very images he was conjuring, and those, coupled with the words, resulted in the clearest of outlines to her.

She didn't know how she ought to react to that, what opinion she should hold of them. But she had learnt not to show her hand, not to let everyone know what she was thinking. She would quell the odd perturbation that shook her now and until she was sure she would do nothing. “It will do,” she said. 

He had disappeared, quick as thought, silent as the grave, but she knew he'd heard.

They had dinner in the downstairs common room, which looked more like a big kitchen with a staircase that led upstairs than a publican's lounge. Next door, the fires of the smithy had been banked, but they had been lit so long that a pleasant warmth that sharply contrasted with the more and more pungent air that blew outside. Arthur wouldn't be surprised if on the morrow they woke to a world whitened by snow.

Aside from themselves, they had one more guest. Unlike them, he didn't have a room up above. His name was Grappelli and Gwen had met him two days previously. She didn't specify how, but she'd said he'd been of service to her. This being the case, her father, Thomas, treated him as the guest of honour. And Grappelli returned his kindness by entertaining them with stories of his travels and of the people he'd met on the road.

It was a charming, convivial evening. Even Daegal, who was normally much more silent, was trading tales of his native village. The occasion would have been perfect if only Oberarzt Emryß had been there. But Arthur hadn't seen him at all that day. Early that morning the Oberarzt had announced he would conduct a post mortem in a village up the Piatra Craiului mountains. It wasn't distant but the road up was steep and winding and it would take longer to reach than some place level with Brasov. He'd ridden away before the sun was up.

Left to himself, Arthur had had meetings with the mayor, the priest and some of the local magnates. The rest of the time he had spent exercising his horse. By the time he had returned the sun was down, dinner had almost been ready, its fumes pervading the common room, and the Oberarzt had already gone up to their room to write his report. 

Arthur had barely seen him, but he had remained with the group out of politeness. When, however, they got to tea and cakes, Arthur excused himself and rejoined his comrade. 

The Oberarzt was sitting at the desk they'd moved into the room. Its surface was lightened both by moonlight shining through the dormer window and an oil lamp that emanated a softer, warmer glow. He was holding his pen in his hand, a little ink spilling from the tip, and frowning at the report he was composing.

“Are you sure you want no dinner?” Arthur asked as he closed the door behind them.

The Oberarzt looked up. Now that his features were no longer in shadow Arthur could tell he appeared tired and worn, his eyes circled with blue. “Yes. I'll get the left-overs when I'm done with this.”

“Are you writing a report about today's case?” Arthur took a stool and moved it close to the Oberarzt's position, so he could better interact with him.

“And about this week's other cases,” the Oberarzt said, scratching away with his pen. 

“So how did it go?” Arthur pushed up an eyebrow.

The Oberarzt smiled at him. “The way all the other cases went. All of them can be explained away scientifically.”

“That's good.” Arthur locked his hands and leant forwards, so he was closer to the Oberarzt. “That means we'll soon be done.”

“Is that what you want?” Emryß poured some blotting powder over an ink stain that marred his careful writing.”

“Well, yes,” Arthur said, without considering his words too much. He had been telling himself this ever since they'd started on this mission. “You can't tell me you don't find this village somewhat perturbing.”

“That I do.” Emryß’ expression unfocused, as if he were thinking of their experience of it so far. “But that's not the reason you want to put it behind you.”

Arthur leant away, placing his open palm face down on his thigh. “I've never hidden my opinion. I want to fight for our Queen. Hers is a noble cause, for a woman should be able to succeed in her father's footsteps when her lineage and his will both allow it. I'm an officer, my place is to fight.”

“This is a different kind of fight, however.” The Oberarzt pushed his papers away. “And I'd hoped you wouldn't end up fighting. You're too good of an officer and man to waste your life at the end of a Prussian cannon.”

“Strangely spoken given that you're a fellow officer,” Arthur said He was touched by the words and the genuine feeling he recognised behind them. “I simply want to disport myself with honour.”

“I don't blame you for that wish.” Emryß lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “I just want you safe, Hauptmann.”

“That's the doctor in you speaking, of course.” Arthur knew that there was more to Emryß' words than that, that the man wasn't only speaking in a purely professional capacity. Emryß was the type of fellow who would bask in feelings of fellowship, who displayed a sensibility that at times went beyond the rationality of the man of science. But Arthur couldn't factor that in right now, couldn't consider it. Taking it in wasn't easy; it risked shaking something in his composure, his ability to function merely as a soldier who went where duty dispatched him. “I understand, but...” He rose, took a detour of the room, as though Emryß' words hadn't unbalanced him just a little. “If every soldier refused to do his duty...”

Emryß held up a hand as if to placate his flow of words. “If you're to fight before the winter is over, we'd better start convincing the populace no blood-sucking demons haunt the district.”

Arthur had thought about it. While he didn't believe in such monsters themselves, he had no idea of how to rid a bunch of rather stubborn peasants of their strongly held beliefs. “How do you mean to go about it?”

“We'll openly discuss the facts we have so far gathered.” The Oberarzt patted his report, which by now consisted of three sheets of fine paper thickly covered in writing. “We'll explain that they were mistaken and that the events they consider supernatural in origin were actually caused by medical factors.”

That was not a bad idea. Arthur enjoyed witnessing the workings of reason. “Though I wager not everyone will be convinced.” He wished he was wrong and that popular opinion could turn around more quickly. That would better serve his interests, but he knew people didn't work like that. “If you could change minds that easily traditions would more easily be put aside.”

“I'm not saying we'll accomplish everything in so short a time.” Emryß was smiling now. “But it's a good start.”

Arthur nodded. In so short a time the Oberarzt had at least shown how competent he was. It wasn't his fault they couldn't change everyone's mind in a thrice. “So we do what? Gather the populace in the main square and show them the error of their ways.”

Emryß started addressing an envelope. “And have the town authorities there to lend support to our statements.”

As he paced the room, Arthur gazed at Emryß. There was a certain grace about him that, coupled with his practical knowledge, made him arresting to watch. There was something about him that was charming, even if as an officer he wasn't run of the mill. “I have a feeling most of them share in the villagers' superstitions, but even so their help would be welcome.”

“And I mean to send Daegal back to Vienna with my report.” Emryß gazed up. “If the Queen's happy with our doings here, maybe she'll set you free so you can go battle the Prussians and their allies.”

“Amen,” Arthur said that with less conviction than he probably should have. The work here was not of the kind that he'd been trained for, and he certainly didn't enjoy discussing monsters that didn't exist with farmers who were convinced they did. So why had he spoken with so little enthusiasm for a prospect that should by all rights have enticed him? He decided he'd mull that over later. For now he had one other duty to see to. “Come.” He stopped his roaming by Emryß' chair and pulled him up by the arm. “We'd better get you downstairs and get some left-overs into you or you'll become a scarecrow. Really, Emryß, for an Austrian officer, you're regrettably scrawny.”

As the blacksmith and the Hauptmann had predicted, snow greeted the day. By the time Daegal was up, and that coincided with the dawn. – the habit of waking up with the sun one imprinted upon him by the military academy – the village was already bestrewn with carpets of white. 

The stables were as cold as ice. When the horses snorted, their breaths went up in a towering cloud of vapour. The water in the troughs had crystallised and there was a thin veneer of frost running the length of the stalls.

It certainly wasn't the best day upon which to set out, especially considering that the weather had held so far. But orders were orders, and Leutnant Emryß wanted him to carry a dispatch back to Vienna. Daegal would be damned before that message got there a minute later than it needed to be.

Gwen's gift for the road consisted of a bunch of mititei, the delectable grilled sausages they'd had the day before for dinner, bread slices still fresh from the oven, and sarmale. So early in the morning Daegal wasn't even hungry, but Gwen's kind words and stammered recommendations for the journey, which made them linger longer than they should, made him sound so appreciative even Gwen probably thought his sudden passion for cabbage rolls was excessive and this likely led her to guess the reason behind his immoderate praise. He grew flustered and she did too. They both burst out laughing at their own awkwardness and their gazes locked as they tried to suppress their giggles. They would probably have stood there exchanging small talk and getting to know one another, if Hauptmann Pendrachen hadn't come down. 

“It's almost seven,” Pendrachen said, as he observed the as yet unsaddled horse. “The days are getting shorter, you don't want to waste daylight hours.”

Daegal needed no other incentive to get going. He went rigid and saluted. Gwen just managed to push a little good luck charm, a rabbit foot it looked like, into his hand without Pendrachen noticing. Daegal acknowledged the gesture with a nod and a smile he hoped spoke of his gratitude. Seeing as Pendrachen was growing impatient, Daegal mounted his snorting horse and got it under control. 

He didn't even wait for his direct superior; he merely spurred his mount out of the stables and was gone from the inn.

The Herr Hauptmann, of course, hadn't been wrong. In spite of how beautiful Gwen was, he shouldn't have lingered. The shortness of winter days was just one factor that would make his journey difficult. The snow that had hit the region would render several tracts of road impassable.

Once he had put Brasov behind, he saw only white crested fields, and roads made slippery by frost and snow. Loads of snow weighed down the branches of trees, covered hedgerows and even fences. One couldn't see the prints of the vehicles and horses that had passed before and even road signs were obscured. 

He had had to retrace his steps more than once because he had missed a road sign, and the time wasted subtracted to the total of daylight hours. He ate on horse-back and did his best to pay heed to where he was going. 

It wasn't easy, for it started snowing again and most recognisable landmarks were as if wiped out by the heavy fall. Big boulders that had stood out and served as a route indicator now lay under heavy cover. All the fields, which had recognisably produced wheat or barely or turnips on their previous journey were now of the same uniform colour. Only church spires were still a beacon; it was a pity that Daegal couldn't connect any to the towns or villages they belonged to. 

All was silent, hushed. Birds, whose prints one could see on fences and by roadsides, didn't call out to each other. Antlered animals didn't surprise the wayfarer on their march. Even smaller mammals didn't come out of their dens. 

Snow swirled downwards in eddies and whorls. Flurries came down as thick as confetti at a wedding. Everything appeared as though hidden by a thick, impenetrable veil. Though Daegal hadn't ridden very far from Brasov, was still in the heart of the Siebenbürgen in fact, he felt as if he had travelled to some place remote from the dwellings of men. 

He slowed his horse, for he wanted to be sure he was on the right track. Before he could orientate himself, however, a wolf appeared on top of a rock hanging over the track. It had grey fur that darkened on its back and became lighter around its bushy sail. It was a powerful specimen, with the sturdy build of an animal that didn't go hungry. But that wasn't what frightened Daegal. It was the inimical look in its eyes; it oozed malice and an awareness that wasn't compatible with its animal nature.

Without meaning to, Daegal pulled on the reins, as if to direct his mount elsewhere, though there was nowhere else to go but forward.

The horse, who had both sensed Daegal's hesitation and the presence of a predator, shied backwards. 

But before Daegal could either get back control of his mount or turn tail, more figures had appeared on his path. 

These weren't animal. They were men and women, dressed in clothes that ranged from rags that were coming apart to serviceable clothes with almost no wear. Daegal might have taken them for vagrants but for their look and attitude. They skin was so sallow it looked like parchment, as if it belonged to the grave. Their cheeks were hollow, they appeared skeletal, as if famine of the worst kind had hit them. Their eyes had the most vacant expression while retaining a menacing aspect. They slouched for the most part, yet they seemed to be tuned to every move of Daegal's. 

It was when they bared their fangs and leapt towards him that Deagal felt all the blood in his veins run cold.

They stood on a wooden platform in the central square, the gabled town hall with its stuccoed facing and elegant pediment behind them. the crowds that had been frequenting the market stalls were in front of them. At first the people of Brasov had continued on with their doings: trading at the stalls; carrying baskets; exchanging words here and there. By and by, as the subject of the address became clear, they gathered close to the dais, listening.

Merlin, as the doctor entrusted with the scientific part of their enquiry, had started out reading from his collection of data, simplifying it as much as possible, so that everyone among the bystanders could understand. The Hauptmann stood at his side, adding to his testimony whenever it was necessary, completing the picture with description of their practical findings. The town's authorities held themselves stoically behind them, their hands clasped together in front of them. They looked as though they wanted no part of this and were only there because they had to be. Orders from Vienna.

The crowd itself didn't seem too pleased with the message either. Some shook their heads, some muttered, and a smaller but rowdier lot cat-called.

Merlin was sweating. The temperature had fallen well below zero by now, and he felt hot about the face, his hands clammy, as he tried to turn the page of the document he was reading from. He knew that he had the facts, that he had gathered enough information regarding the deaths attributed to vampirism to know that they were ascribed to no such thing. But the mob was getting more sceptical, impatient and loud.

“In the two weeks that I've been here, I've reviewed all the cases that gave rise to suspicion.” Merlin didn't say that the idea behind vampirism was preposterous even though medicine had taught him it was. He didn't want to hurt the people of Brasov with his remarks. He wasn't there for that. His mandate was converting the population to more enlightened beliefs. Merlin just meant to nudge them softly towards rational scepticism. “And none of them pointed to any but natural causes. Food shortages, the concomitant diseases and even early burial can explain away all supposed cases of vampire attacks.”

“But we have seen some of the people attacked, they had wounds on their necks and they were tottering and pale. The vârcolac preyed on them!”

“The reddening that you saw was skin or disease,” Merlin said, attempting to be as clear as he could without losing sight of the science behind his assertions. He didn't mention Hippocrates and his findings, for most around here wouldn't know who he was. “There are illnesses of the blood and liver which affect the skin and cause other apparently unrelated symptoms such as trances, seizures and hallucinations.” 

“And what's this disease called?” a woman with a sack full of laundry at her feet asked. “Why don't we know anything about it like we do about the plague and the pox?”

“There are a lot of conditions and not all of them are as well understood or studied.” Merlin was trying his best to answer this question, because the success of this venture depended upon this. “That doesn't mean that horrors are happening.”

“How do you explain my neighbour then?” A stout farmer called out, putting his hands on his hips. “One day he was fine, the next he was dead and on the third we heard him rattling about in his grave. The lads from the next village over had to open the casket and drive a stake through his heart.”

Merlin winced. “Yes well, he had probably been declared dead by mistake.” 

“His wife was with him when he passed.” The farmer was seeking confirmation from a group of people close to him. “She was there when he stopped breathing, held a mirror in front of his mouth and it didn't even dim a little.”

“Um, was a doctor present?” Merlin said, trying not to imagine the situation too vividly. “Because if there wasn't mistakes might arise.”

There was a sudden clamour; people protested they could tell the living from the dead, and declared that doctors knew nothing when established wisdom could supply more practical information as to how to deal with the undead. Those, they maintained, existed. 

One person had encountered one such monster and had avoided an attack by the skin of their teeth. Another had seen a moroi in his grave. The corpse was too full and bloated to belong to a man who'd died from hunger. Surely, the dead person must have fed after their demise. A third knew a vampire victim. It was an old woman, who lived way away. She had the marks on her neck that were proof of the encounter. She had only saved herself because the vârcolac that had meant to turn her was killed by a wandering vampire hunter. She still had to anoint the wound with holy water. 

Merlin attempted to explain away all these reports. Most were hearsay, he maintained. They might not even have taken place. The others could easily be cleared up rationally. Hauptmann Pendrachen backed him up, but the crowd continued protesting.

The only member of it that wasn't taking part in the general upheaval was the Lady Morgana. She was standing away from the crowd, at the back of it. Her dark hair was gathered in an intricate net of braids protected by a sable bonnet. Her overcoat was of gold brocade fringed with fur and her dress of Turkish cut and look. She appeared for all the world like the Eastern European noblewoman she was, her look imperious, her haughty mien setting her aside from the crowd of her compatriots. But she couldn't be as unmoved by the goings on as she seemed. 

She had no reason to be there. Merlin and the Hauptmann had had her father summoned so he could witness their address to the population, but the order didn't involve the rest of his family. She was at liberty to do whatever she wanted. She had evidently chosen to listen to what they had to say. But why? 

She had said she supported the population her father ruled over. She had been on their side. But what did this mean in practical terms. Did she merely dislike the interference from Vienna or did she share the same values and beliefs as her countrymen? Was she here because she believed in vampires?

Merlin had no time to find an answer for that, because a wagon came tearing into the square, rattling on its wheels. At the reins was a man dressed in the costume of the people of Graz, down to hosen and hat. His companion, a blonde woman wearing a loose dress, also shared the same national outfit. 

While Merlin had no idea who they were, the people of Brasov did. They pointed and said, “That's Tristan and Isolde.”

Having stopped his wagon, Tristan jumped out of it. He pulled back the cloth canvas that covered its rear and plopped a corpse right on the ground at his feet. And then another. The first was a man, the other a woman. Though Merlin wasn't close enough to see more, he could tell that the bodies that had been so unceremoniously dumped weren't fresh corpses. They were so stiff rigor mortis had set in.

Those closest to the bodies gasped and recoiled in horror. Some crossed themselves, some held each other. All of them moved away from the bodies and towards the stage built in front of the town hall. 

“What is the meaning of this,” Hauptmann Pendrachen asked as he stalked to the fore of the dais.

“These are the bodies of people who've fallen prey to the vârcolaci,” Tristan said, addressing the township. His shoulders were rolled back, he had his hands on his hips, and his foot rested on the front wheel of his wagon. “This should be proof enough of their existence.”

“Wait,” said Merlin, “how can you tell what they died of?”

“I have eyes to see.” As Tristan said this he was applauded. 

Isolde backed him by saying. “We have experience of this. We can tell when a person has been mauled by a vampire.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” The Hauptmann jumped off the dais and cleared himself a path towards the new arrivals. “First of all who are you and what is your business here?”

“I'm Tristan and this is my wife, Isolde.” He put a hand on her shoulder as she smiled at him. “We are travelling merchants from Graz--”

A murmur rose from some bystanders. ‘Smuggler, robber,’ they said.

In the face of those accusations Tristan kept calm, showing no less bravado than he had heretofore. “What I am is not important now.” He said this in spite of the Hauptmann's scowl.

“We want to know what connection you have to these bodies,” the Hauptmann said, indicating the corpses that had been so theatrically thrown down. “How you found them.”

“I'm a travelling merchant.” Tristan held the Hauptmann's gaze. “That man over there lying stone cold was my friend. His name was Mihai and I discovered his body in his hut. He should have been hale and well, and so he was but two months ago, when I last travelled in these parts. But, as you can see, he was vilely killed.”

“That's right.” Isolde also stepped forwards, nodding for everyone to see.

“And who tells me you didn't kill your friend?” The Hauptmann had moved closer to the travelling merchant, in a gesture of defiance. “On whose word do I have it you didn't kill him and then the girl?”

Tristan snorted. “See if he has an ounce of blood in his body. Then we'll talk responsibility.”

Since he was the only one who could answer that question, Merlin to leapt off the dais and marched into the crowd. He would get to the truth of this.

The tripe had sunk low into the soup, releasing grease and watery residue. Its surface looked oily and disgusting. The papanași looked equally disgusting – when you cut into the core of them an avalanche of cheese would spurt out, mingling with the cream in an unholy combination. The same could be said for the varza a la Cluj – the cabbage was too soft and moist, the rice too hard and pale, and the meat tasted of rotten onion. 

Morgana just had to put the fork down. Nausea made her feel repulsion for all the foods on display on the table, no matter how they were presented. When the bowls were passed close to her, she almost retched. Actually taking a bite out of any of the dishes made her stomach swim around and sweat break over her skin. Chewing on meat was like chewing on corpses. Eating vegetables was like feasting on roots. Nothing pleased her; everything made her sick.

No one seemed to notice. No one paid attention to her, not her father, most certainly not her mother and the same could be said for their guests. They were too busy discussing what had happened earlier that day.

“Could you believe what happened?” her mother was saying to her guest, the wife of a burgher who prided herself upon being afraid of everything and doing positively nothing without her husband. “Dumping corpses in the middle of the town square. It's unheard of.”

The burgher's wife pinched her mouth and looked both frightened and put out by her mother. “Could we not?”

“I for one would like to talk about it,” Lord Gorlois said. “We were forced into taking part in the men from Vienna's public speech, only for it to get turned into a proper mess.”

“But if it's the Queen's orders,” her mother said, while Morgana felt as if the world was turning upside down. “They had to do it.”

“All I know is that they're now using the Town Hall to cut up those corpses, which is unheard of. And what do they expect to find, I say?”

“Evidence of...” Her mother made vague signs.

“If the signs point to...” Lord Gorlois waggled his eyebrows, “...then I suppose they're going to take action.

The burgher's wife reclined against the back of her chair, as if she was about to faint and was powerless to sit up. “Is this conversation suited to the dining table?”

Morgana clattered to her feet, pushing aside the dish and bowl sitting before her. “In fact, it is not,” she said, using the opening. “I don't feel well.” This was, after all, no lie. “I'll retire.”

“Morgana.” Her mother frowned deeply at her. “We have guests.”

“As I said, I'm not well.” Her head swam and she was clammy all over. She felt pangs of hunger but all the food she saw displayed in front of her made her gag. “I must be excused.”

So saying, she took herself to her room. There she changed into her nightclothes and sat by the window, observing the moon, which tonight had a strong pull on her. She tried reading to take the edge off her restlessness, to concentrate on something other than the malaise that had her in its grip. Before she put herself to bed, one of the maids knocked on her door with a tray full of food. At the sight of the hams, savoury puddings and cheeses displayed on it, she gagged. The maid noticed and Morgana sent the tray flying as a gesture of frustration mixed with pent up rage.

As the maid knelt to pick up the pieces, Morgana slammed the door in her face. She continued pottering around on the landing until the clock struck nine and the noise thereafter died down. All manner of sounds, however, still floated up from downstairs. Evidently, her parents were still entertaining.

Morgana meanwhile paced, both feverish and cold. There was something she needed, something she craved, but she couldn't tell what it was. She tried putting herself to bed, but sleep wouldn't come to her. When she realised she was in for a sleepless night, she opened a book and attempted reading, but the words jumbled together while her brain was lost in a cloud of confusion.

An irresistible weariness made her weak. Her lids were heavy, as though she needed slumber, but that would not come. She had no strength in her limbs. Even keeping the book open in front of her felt like the hardest of toils. Her limbs were lead and her head too light. An icy chill spread from limb to limb, making her tremble. 

She tried drinking water, but she spat it out. It scorched her tongue and left the most disgusting of after tastes.

Though a kind of prostration she had never known had a hold of her, she paced once again, a fever with strange sensations and dark premonitions.

Meanwhile the household had turned in for the night. The silence rang out crystal clear. She thought she could hear the hooting of howls and the screeches of bats from the garden and forest outside. In a way she could even put their calls into words. But no sound came from the great dining room or the kitchens.

Servants and masters alike reposed.

Instead of once again trying for sleep that wouldn't come, she wrapped herself in her silk dressing gown and left her room.

Though both landing and staircase were steeped in extreme darkness, she needed to light no lamps to find her way downstairs. She could see very well even in the vast blackness of night. It wasn't just that she knew the way by heart and could direct her steps with the guidance of a mental map. No, she saw the walls and treads, the mezzanines and corridors. Her night gown trailing behind her like a bridal veil, she glided forwards with the assurance of a panther, a beast of the night.

On the first floor, her parents' room opened. The door was only open a notch, but she could hear them snoring, her father loudly, her mother more softly.

Without making any noise, she tapped the door further open. Her parents were lying on their backs, their heads resting on a fat stack of pillows, their mouths open. 

But this wasn't all. She could hear the blood running in their veins, trace its course along arteries and capillaries. She could feel it pump through valves and atria, the life force that kept them alive.

It made her thirsty. It made her faint with longing and a hunger she couldn't shake off.

Her teeth extended; she could feel their tips on her bottom lip. Voluntarily, she pierced it and tasted her own blood.

Oh, it was lovely.

The taste of it was fresh and revitalising. For a moment she thought she was tasting heaven. Its sweetness knowing no bounds. As soon as she detected its delectable qualities, she wanted more. But she couldn't keep biting her lips. There must be more she could do. 

Maybe in the larder there was some meat fresh from slaughter. While its texture seemed disgusting, it would surely drip blood. But how much?

She had discovered in herself a vast, bottomless hunger that the dining table hadn't awakened.

No, it wouldn't be enough. No little quantity of blood squeezed out of a chunk of veal or pork could either satisfy or sustain her. There had to be an alternative.

Her parents. In her parents flowed so much blood it would quell her thirst. The hunger pangs would die down. Her compulsion to get some would quieten. She wouldn't be wracked by this living nightmare any more. 

She pushed the door a notch wider and stepped into the darkened room. She made no sound. Her footsteps were like those of a hunting wolf. Undetectable. 

She neared the bed. She saw her parents in their sleep. They had no sense of her presence in their chamber. They didn't know what instincts they had awoken in her. 

They weren't blameless in all of this. If she hadn't sought a way out of her caged existence. If they had let her feel free, not imprisoned by rules she hadn't chosen for herself, she wouldn't have opted for the only solution in her grasp. 

Because of her youth and gender, they had made her feel small and unimportant. She hadn't mattered if not as a means to an end, furthering the family's interests, providing an heir to all their chattels. 

She wasn't only that. She had a right to more. This power that she felt coursing throughout her seemed like an affirmation of this. With all its rawness, it made her feel larger than life. With this she could burst out of the confines of her cage and do what she wanted. She would finally come into her own and shape her own destiny outside of the scope her birth and sex had limited her to.

She could be like him, a maker of her own destiny, a powerful force that stood outside of petty rules and laws. She could be the legend he was, someone to be respected, someone who wielded powers nature alone could offer.

Yes, she would do it.

She bent over her father. He smelled like the sweet wine he had had for dessert, but there was a subtle whiff of something else, his animal nature, the flesh and sinew he was made of. What difference was there between him and the animals he partook of at the dining table? None. They all had a life that would fall prey to the needs of a greater predator. There could be no immorality in this.

She was about to bite into the wrinkled neck, when she remembered a scene from her childhood. 

She had never been part of the boar hunt. Her mother had forbidden it. It was too dangerous for a little girl, and though Morgana could already ride well, she wasn't meant to parade her unladylike skills before the family's retainers and allies. But, uncharacteristically, her father had talked her out of all qualms. ‘She's only a child,’ he had said. ‘By the time she's of marriageable age, they'll all have forgotten about it. Let her have her fun now.’

So she had tagged along, mounting a horse whose stirrups had to be adjusted to match her height. The day had been long and wearing; for the longest time they hadn't been able to spot the animal they had been hunting. Morgana was saddle sore and cold, for the forest was ripe with the waters of long rainfalls.

Then one of the dogs picked up a trail and ran after it, disappearing into the thick of the odorous woods. Whimpering with the excitement of the impeding kill, the dog had sped like an arrow. Morgana had only been able to see it because of its extremely light fur.

The riders, with the beaters in the lead, fought their way through the thick undergrowth. Morgana had kept following them, never failing to keep her eyes on the foremost of them. They sloshed their way across streams and bogs and jumped over naked trunks some lumber-man had cut. 

Morgana had kept hold of the rains and trailed them, as they in turn shadowed the beast. Morgana's sense of elation at the adventure had given way, when she found herself alone in a clearing bound by a belt of trees so tall she couldn't see the top of them.

At the centre of it stood the boar. The hounds had bloodied him, but the boar had killed them in turn. Now, it was panicked, its eyes wild with fear and pain, its muscles taught with effort. It squealed repeatedly, then as if it had made up its mind, it raised its tusks, sharp like knives and charged.

The horse had thrown Morgana then and made for safer parts, while Morgana lay on the ground, mud staining her riding dress and making her cold. Then the boar had charged and Morgana had, for the first time in her life, known what it was to fear for it. She had been paralysed, unable to move a single muscle in her own defence. She had wanted to scream, but no air came out of her lungs.

Before the boar tusks could skewer her better than any bladed weapon could, a horse burst through the forest. She had blinked and seen her father sitting astride it, his Magyar blade glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. Before Morgana could feel anything at all, he had deeply wounded the boar, which ran into the shadows of the woods, lamenting its pain.

Her father had saved her life that day. It hadn't been a daring rescue, he wasn’t given to heroics, but he had accomplished the deed and Morgana had returned home safe and sound because of him.

She couldn't kill her father. With all his shortcomings, she still couldn't do that. 

The same went for her mother. They might not have had the relationship Morgana wished,but she still couldn't be the one to take her life. She had had no comfort from her mother, she wasn't a woman who could understand her plight, but Morgana couldn't be her killer. This woman had given birth to her, and if sometimes the gift had seemed like a curse, that was immaterial.

What was Morgana becoming? What sort of monster could do that? What creature could do that?

Unfortunately she knew only too well, but that didn't mean she wasn't recoiling at herself, shame and anger making her sick. 

Horrified, she ran, losing herself in the night.

The clock in the waiting hall had chimed three in the morning by the time Merlin got out. In spite of the late hour the space was full of people who had been waiting for the results of the post-mortems he'd conducted. When they'd carted in the two corpses there had been some twenty people in the Town Hall, including Tristan and Isolde, whom the Hauptmann didn't want to keep out of sight, and Father Athanasius from the village church. While Lord Gorlois had decamped for home, many more people, eaten by curiosity and fear, had gathered in the civic building. Among them Merlin counted many merchants and farmers of Brasov, Gwen's father, and the company of Sinti headed by Grappelli he'd met at the blacksmith's.

These people might all be different in social standing, origins and profession, but they had one thing in common. They wanted to know what Merlin had to say. It was written on their faces.

So Merlin did his best to ignore the man saying his rosary in the corner, and said, “I autopsied the bodies belonging to the man identified as the labourer Mihai and that of the unknown shepherdess.”

“And?” This came from more than one person at once.

Merlin cleared his throat and rolled down the sleeves he had pushed up so as to conduct the autopsies. “Both victims died of severe blood loss.” As Merlin had cut he had been at pains to find any residue. “The only wounds present on them were punctures on the neck.”

“Vârcolaci,” was the murmur that spread around the crowded Town Hall ante room. “This is the vârcolaci at work.”

The man who had been resolutely fingering the beads of his rosary muttered out, “May the Lord save us. We're beset by the foulest of monsters.”

A clamour rose. People shouted questions. There were calls for the army and godly intervention. Some gave in to hysterics, others huddled in corners, terrified of a monsters they thought lurked close. 

Hauptmann Pendrachen made calming gestures, though he was heeded little and addressed the throng. “Oberarzt Emryß has simply laid out the causes of death. He hasn't said there are any vampires aloud.”

A woman jeered them. “What else can kill a person by draining them of all their blood without inflicting any visible wounds.”

That, Merlin had to admit, was a good question, one he had asked himself. He had considered various diseases such as chlorosis, internal ulcers – he found, however, none – and strange tumours, which didn't grow in the bodies of the victims. Before actually getting out of the room he had conducted the post-mortems in, he had thought long and hard. He had stumbled upon no answers to communicate to the waiting public and didn't want to lie. Though he was here to dispel all myths regarding the vârcolaci, he hadn't been charged with creating new ones, fabrications of his own making that had little connection to the truth. 

“It's true I can't establish any cause of death at the moment.” The bodies' internal organs had been so deprived of blood they had almost shrivelled up, especially the heart. “At least one unrelated to the findings I already told you about, but that doesn't necessarily mean a vampire did it.”

“So you admit we didn't kill Mihai and the girl we found in the forest?” Isolde asked, her expression taking no prisoners.

“As things stand,” Merlin answered, weighing his words, “I don't think you could have procured the ailment that led her to her death in any way I can think of.”

The crowd took this statement as an admission of the existence of vârcolaci. This led them to be loud and aggressive. Pendrachen put himself between Merlin and the crowd, but if they got any more aggressive, he couldn't stop a riot from happening.

They were all clamouring, with Pendrachen tried to maintain order when a voice broke over the yelling. 

“It is a vampire who killed those people.” The Lady Morgana stood at the entrance of the foyer, wrapped in what looked like a nightgown and furs. She looked pale and dishevelled, with dark smears under her eyes and dry lips. But the fiery expression Merlin had known her for hadn't gone out of her eyes. Similarly, her tone made everyone in the Town Hall cower. “I have proof.”

The crowd turned towards her, as if waiting for the solution to the conundrum.

Hauptmann Pendrachen asked, “What sort of proof is this?”

“I have met him.” The Lady Morgana tossed her head back, defying the throng from finding anything wrong with her words. “I have seen him kill.”

“When was this?” Pendrachen tipped his chin forward in as confrontational a gesture as the Lady Morgana's.

“That shepherdess.” The Lady Morgana indicated her with a motion of her head. “I saw her being killed. By the time I got there there was little I could do.”

“When was this?” Pendrachen asked, his sword jingling by his side as he moved. 

“Two days ago.”

With a nod Merlin confirmed the medical likelihood of this scenario with a nod, which Pendrachen took in.

“Then tell us--” Pendrachen widened his arms as if to indicate the roomful of people. “--who is responsible.”

“For these deaths?” Morgana made a point of looking in the direction of the room the corpses had been autopsied in. “The guilty one is the Prince of Darkness.”

Throughout the ante-room a panicked buzz went round, but Hauptmann Pendrachen remained staunch and calm. “Such a personage doesn't seem likely to exist.”

“Then those people drained themselves of all of their blood alone, does that seem feasible?”

“Not very.” Trying to find alternative answers that would answer the riddle of those deaths was getting harder and harder. Merlin was a man of science, so bypassing the knowledge he had acquired during long years of study wasn't an easy requirement, yet all he'd seen had no explanation, which was rendering belief... possible. 

The Lady Morgana thanked him with her eyes. “A reasonable man, finally.”

Pendrachen shook his head. “These seem like old nurses' tales.”

“The Prince of Darkness has long haunted this region.” Many confirmed Lady Morgana's words with their nods and murmurs. “He might be known to you under a different name however.”

“And that would be?” Pendrachen was frowning deeply, while keeping an eye on the agitated crowd.

“You may know him as the Voivode of Wallachia,” Lady Morgana said. “A lord born in Sighisoara, Vlad Tepes.”

Pendrachen and Merlin said at the same time, “Vlad the Impaler.”

“But he died hundreds of years ago,” Merlin continued alone, his brow as furrowed as Pendrachen's had been. 

“Two hundred and sixty-four years ago.” The Lady Morgana seemed completely unaffected by this. “Thanks to the blood he drinks, he has been able to live much longer than any other human being.”

Merlin was trying to make out the biological realities behind such a proposition, when Pendrachen said, “It's absurd.”

“And yet.” Morgana crossed her arms. “In order to explain all this you have to leave reason behind and believe in that which is hard to contemplate.”

Pendrachen looked as if he was about to retort when someone from the crowd shouted. “What she's saying is true. We've always known. We've always feared him and his disciples.”

Rolling his eyes towards heaven, Father Athanasius crossed himself and so did many who belonged to his congregation.

“We believe in the vârcolac,” Isolde said. “He's an old enemy.”

Merlin was starting to think there was something to this. It wasn't only the people's testimonies or the Lady Morgana's words, but the facts of the case that were making him slowly accept the supernatural as a possibility. As if he had known what Merlin was thinking, Pendrachen looked to him. Merlin lifted his shoulders and nodded grimly. Pendrachen took Merlin's evaluation at face value.

“Let's for a moment think this is possible,” Pendrachen said. “How can we apprehend this creature?”

“You don't apprehend it,” Lady Morgana said, her eyes flashing fire. “You kill it.”

The Hauptmann's lips thinned. Merlin's confidence wavered.

Then Hauptmann Pendrachen said, “If this person is responsible for the death of these two people--”

“And many more,” interjected Tristan.

Hauptmann Pendrachen acted as though there had been no interruption. “It would be in my remit as an officer of the Royal Austrian Army to take no prisoners.”

Merlin wasn't breathing easily. He had come here to bring peace to the population, ease them in the knowledge that they were safe. Instead, he was probably preparing to kill, disseminating fear in the hearts of those who believed they were beset by monsters. And yet, if this creature was real, then stopping it would also put an end to the deaths. 

“In that case,” Lady Morgana said, “I'll need to prepare you, for there's more you have to know.”

Pendrachen consented to this wordlessly, with a little nod of the head that showed how resolute he could be when push came to shove. They were lucky to have him, for though this situation had a lot of the preposterous, a brave man like him would be of use. 

“Not here.” Morgana cupped the side of her neck with her hand, as though she was cold or had goose bumps. “Some of what I have to tell you is not for everyone to hear.”

There were protests; there were requests to be included in the number of people allowed in secret conference. A chorus of voices once again filled the waiting room, the racket growing exponentially the more scared and excited people grew. Signs of escalating hysteria also made themselves evident. Some cried. Some turned to Father Athanasius for comfort. Others cursed so loudly the walls almost shook.

In the end Hauptmann Pendrachen shouted, “Enough. I'll chose who's part of this council.” He glared at the crowd so as to keep it in check. “Now if you'll follow me.” He indicated a number of people and took the Lady Morgana under his arm, directing her steps. “This way.”

The Council Room was large, designed to fit up to a hundred people. Rows of square panels painted and decorated with corbels and other motifs divided the pale ceiling into sections. Two windows that faced the back of the Town square, and from which moonlight flared in. Torches, their holders affixed to the walls, and a wide chandelier, had been lit to illuminate the space now in use. Imperial and town flags unfurled from short poles placed either side of a desk that served the administration for their day to day tasks. 

A larger oak table that was certainly centuries old – and bore the traces of it in the shape of scratches, wax stains and termite holes – cut the room vertically and seemed to come into use during more important occasions. 

At this they sat. Arthur sat at the head of the table, with Lady Morgana on one side and the Oberarzt on the other. Tristan and Isolde had won a place in the council by virtue of their knowledge both of the area and the kind of monster they were supposedly fighting. Father Athanasius picked a chair next to Isolde. He hadn't wanted to be there – he was rather too pale and trembling for a man in control of his emotions – but Arthur had requested he be there. He knew the people best and if they were to fight a demonic creature then he wagered they needed the support of the church. Gwen's father, who as a blacksmith could provide weapons, and his guest, Grappelli, also joined them.

Arthur took the floor, so to speak. “For now we shall act as though this monster the Lady Morgana speaks of is real.” Arthur strongly wished it wasn't, for he had never fought an enemy that wasn't flesh and blood. He suspected his military skills would be of little use in this fight, for his opponent was one that behaved according to laws that weren't natural. “What I want to know is, how do you fight it?”

“With prayer,” said Father Athanasius, before starting a Pater Noster. 

“A stake through the heart.” Tristan made a stabbing gesture. “That's how they die.”

Lady Morgana scoffed. “There's more than one way to kill a vârcolac, though the best way is a fusion of methods. It's true for example that a holy representative is needed, of any religion.”

Father Athanasius' eyes rounded in fear.

Lady Morgana went on, “While stabbing the heart is a good idea in principle, it's best if the object one pierces the heart with has been blessed. It's better still if the vârcolac is killed in his own grave.”

A big part of Arthur was still incredulous; he was having a hard time coping with Lady Morgana's words. He looked to Emryß, who seemed as much at a loss as Arthur was. He wasn't panicking though and that grounded Arthur. If he could do it, so could Arthur. “I have questions. Where did you learn this. How can you be sure the threat will be over if we kill this...” Arthur was at pains to keep his face neutral. He wanted to roll his eyes so much. “...Dracula. Where do we find him?”

“This is simple lore,” Lady Morgana said without batting an eyelash.

Tristan and Isolde verbally confirmed this. Isolde then added, “We've travelled far and wide and we've encountered many manner of monsters along the way. We've never killed a vampire ourselves, but we've heard from our sources that's that how you kill them.”

The Lady Morgana looked fixedly at the table. “Vlad has haunted this region for a very long time. His dwelling is known. His habits are too. Most people refrain from even speaking his name. But his abode is a legendary place.”

Arthur nodded. This at least was one less problem for them to handle. “Then we will find this Vlad and kill him and his accomplices.”

“Killing the vampire who sired the others will make the demise of his brethren that much easier,” Tristan said. “This is grounded in lore and tradition.”

Arthur hoped so. He asked the Lady Morgana to show him the haunt of the Voivode Vlad on a map the council prepared for him. Lady Morgana pointed her finger to a spot in the map. Arthur looked and saw that it corresponded to Bran Castle. It controlled a gorge from which it took its name, thus providing access to what had once been trade routes. Arthur didn't particularly care about its past strategic importance, but about its preset accessibility. 

The castle was guarded from the East by the Bucegi Mountains and from the West by the Piatra Craiului Massive. The gorge itself because of its concave space allowed a view of the Burzenland, and to the hills and valley of Moeciu. Attacking it wouldn't be easy. Aside from its key position at the top of a mountain, the fortress also offered the security of preventing surprise attacks thanks to the width of its outlook. “We need men,” Arthur told the Oberarzt, who with him shared the burden of this mission. “We can't storm this place if there's just two of us.”

“You have us,” Isolde said, covering Tristan's palm with her own. “Mihai was our friend. We'll happily avenge him.”

“That's not enough.” Arthur had no idea what kind of fighters Tristan and Isolde were. If it was true they were no real travelling merchants, but robbers, then they might have some experience when it came to self-defence, but would they be as good as a trained soldier? He wasn't about to wager his and Emryß' life on that score. 

“Given we can't wait for reinforcements from Vienna...” God alone knew how many more victims there'd be if they let this wait. “We need the rest of our men. They're back in Sighisoara,” Arthur said, recollecting their parting. As things now stood, he wished he hadn't divided their small force. At the time coming into Brasov with armed men had seemed like a provocation the locals didn't need, especially if they were to be convinced to adhere to the mores and ideas of Vienna. Now it was all very different. “We need to send for them.”

“We can go,” Grappelli said, speaking for the other travellers in his group as if he knew they would follow his lead. “We were headed that way anyway, we stop and deliver a message for your friends.”

Arthur was about to speak his thanks, when Lady Morgana spoke. “You must know that that won't be an easy task.”

Grappelli looked inquisitively at Lady Morgana, and Arthur admitted he did too.

Lady Morgana explained himself. “You sent a courier to Vienna.”

Arthur's face must have betrayed what he felt about this, but he couldn't help it. 

Emryß asked the question Arthur had been meaning to, “How do you know this?”

“I have ways.” Lady Morgana lowered her eyes, looked at the hands she'd lain on the table. Her fingers were bare of rings, but she still bore the marks of them. This spareness fit the mood of the lady tonight. She was frailer, yet more subtly combative. “Fact is, your news never reached Vienna.”

Arthur's lips became a line and he felt the urge to bite them. He only refrained because he didn't want to look as though he was about to panic. “Then we'll have to hope that Herr Grappelli and his fellow travellers will manage to hand my message to my men successfully.”

He then indicated the maps strewn on the table. This he knew how to do; this was his field of expertise. “Now we prepare the assault on Dracula's lair.”

They were waiting in a hunting hut that overlooked the main road leading from Sighisoara to Brasov. 

It was raining hard, turning the snow into slush, flooding part of the road and reducing visibility. As it was, the path was deserted, its depths shadowed by large trees and the fast fading daylight.

They were standing on its covered look-out spot, sitting on opposite creaking chairs, sharing cups of spiced wine. The fronds that framed the little balcony were dripping a constant stream of water. It was damp and it was cold.

“Everything tastes like paprika here,” the Hauptmann said.

Merlin made a face. “True, but I think I could grow to appreciate that but for the feelings that sit heavy on my heart.”

“You're thinking of your Flügeladjutant.” The Hauptmann was showing insight today.

“I was quite in a hurry to send him off.” Merlin looked at his boots. They were ringed in mud and looked much more the worse for wear then they had in Vienna. “I shouldn't have.”

“You weren't to know.” The Hauptmann had wrapped his hands around his mug, as if it could possibly still be warm.

“Don't tell me you're not worried about your men on the road from Sighisoara.” Merlin wasn't blind.

“Does it show?” The Hauptmann looked downward, bending in a crouch, then he sighed and leaned back against the back of his chair. “I'm directly responsible for them.”

“As I am for Daegal.” Merlin hadn't slept over this. He couldn't quite forgive himself. “Tell me what's the difference.”

The Hauptmann looked as if he was about to say something, but then he stopped himself.

Merlin went on. “I suppose I'm not cut out for this. I'm more of a doctor then I am an army officer. If I had been a better officer, then perhaps I would have--”

“What?” The Hauptmann asked. “Eschewed communicating with Vienna? Guessed there was a supernatural monster wreaking havoc in the region.”

The Hauptmann sounded reasonable and Merlin was usually easily persuaded by reason. Yet he knew the Hauptmann felt the same way Merlin did. Sometimes feelings would just have the upper hand. “I just wish I could do something. That I could hurry and rescue poor Daegal.”

A silence followed. They listened to the pattering of the rain and watched as the drops made pools on the wooden rail. 

After a while the Hauptmann said, “You're not a bad officer, Leutnant.” He was looking Merlin in the eye, his gaze penetrating and bearing warmth. “I've dealt with bad officers and I've dealt with you. Don't underestimate yourself.”

“I thought you'd weighed and found me wanting when we met, Herr Hauptmann.” Merlin tried to laugh to lighten the mood. Yet he was trapped by the power of the Hauptmann's gaze, by the sheer sincerity of it, by what it said about Pendrachen's view of him. It was like being bowled over, like standing too close to a flame that would singe you. Merlin was afraid, but he also was ready to risk anything to hover close.

The Hauptmann laughed, throwing his head back. He was dabbing at the tears the laughter had brought on when he said, “I must be transparent.” He shook his head, still harbouring a chuckle. “I've watched you in action and I've changed my mind.”

Merlin accepted that with a nod. It was the kind of praise that would ordinarily make him blush. When Pendrachen conveyed it it seemed to matter even more, because Pendrachen was an old-school upright officer, because he knew what duty and goodness were. So Merlin downplayed it a little. That or he would utter sentences he couldn't dare to. “Thank you, Herr Hauptmann.”

“You've put up with me long enough to call me Arthur, by the way.”

Merlin smiled the biggest smile he thought he could get away with and drank a pull of their cold mulled wine. 

Pendrachen grinned at him in return as if all the cares they had weren't real, as if they weren't sitting in the cold of a Transylvanian wood, hoping Pendrachen's men would make it back to Brasov unscathed. His gaze became softer in the bargain, his focus wholly on Merlin. There was warmth and comfort in it, a lending of courage for the times to come.

Merlin felt the connection between them then. It had sparked and gone alight and now it was burning Merlin with a fire of affection and curiosity, kinship and fascination. He was about to say something, make an offer that would make or break them, when he heard the sound of hoof beats on the road.

Pendrachen stood and lent over the look-out's rail. “It's them. It's my men. I can see our standard.”

Merlin was torn between disappointment and hope. He wished he could have had longer, that he could have freely talked to Arthur. At the same time he knew they needed his men's help in order to get rid of the threat that loomed over Transylvania. “Let's welcome them then.”

Castle Bran rose out of the mountain; rock gave way to stone and stone to tower and turrets that vied for the cloud-darkened sky. These were red-tiled and tapered towards their apex, the donjon secured by more defences. The exterior walls were thick and somewhat squat, built in the style of ages past. Back in its heyday the place would have been nearly impregnable, the outer enclosure wall featuring arrow slits for archers. Nowadays with more powerful cannons and artillery those protections wouldn't last long, but that didn't mean much to Arthur because they didn't have the numbers to take the castle by storm, as they would if they had had time to explain this to Vienna, and got a battalion by way of reinforcements. 

They watched the bridge that led into the keep hidden behind bushes situated on the other side of the Bran gorge. Merlin crouched beside him, the warmth of his body seeping into Arthur's by way of contact. It persisted in spite of the cold that otherwise stiffened their bodies. At his other side stood Gwaine and Elyan; Leon, Percival, and Mordred were on Merlin's. Morgana stood in the shadow behind them, with Tristan and Isolde, who had insisted upon coming based on their prior experience with the killing of vârcolaci.

They had tied their horses further away, so as to cut noise to a minimum. Even so Morgana had warned them; vampires, and him especially, were sensitive to noise. They could spot animals at a distance without even seeing them; they were aware of heartbeats because they needed that ability to survive. So even Gwaine had tamped down on the jokes.

Arthur had just moved a little so as to shake off the numbness in his limbs, when he heard the pattering of footsteps indicating someone was running towards them. Though Arthur suspected a vampire trawling the woods for prey wouldn't be this noisy, he still took his sword half off its scabbard.

He turned his torso and saw Gwen hastening towards them, holding a scabbard of her own. Her palm was pressed against her breast when she stopped. Panting, she said, “Father Athanasius, the brothers from the Orthodox monastery in Bodrog and the rabbi from the Sibiu Synagogue have all blessed this sword my father made.” She handed it to Arthur. “We would have gone for the nearest Ottoman Imam as well, but we thought crossing borders wouldn't be quite as safe.”

Arthur bared the sword up to its middle. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The blade was light and would be easy to swing, yet Arthur could see just how sharp its edge was. A funnel ran at its centre, with symbols burned into it. He couldn't tell what they said, but he knew they were powerful. Usually, Arthur wasn't a man to lend credence to any myth, but this sword made him. He was thankful beyond belief. He couldn't quite express it, or meet Gwen's eyes, but Merlin somehow understood how Arthur felt.

Merlin said, “He's thanking you I think.”

“You're welcome.” Gwen curtsied, then laughed at herself before growing tense again when she heard a bird call come from the deep of the forest. Thereupon, she emptied a sack full of sharp wooden stakes. “They've been blessed as well.”

They shared the stakes among themselves with Gwaine saying, “I'll get two.”

When Lady Morgana's turn came, she refused to take any of the stakes. “I will do without, thank you, Gwen.”

“Don't you mean to fight?” Gwen cocked her head to ask.

The Lady Morgana attempted a pale smile. “I will fight my own way.”

“Why don't you stay by my side, my beauteous lady?” Gwaine winked at her. “I'll protect you.”

“Aw, one could almost think he's sweet,” Elyan said, dimpling, “if one didn't know he had ulterior motives.”

While Gwaine mouthed a shut up to Elyan, which made the other members of Arthur's little band laugh, the Lady Morgana looked away, not forgetting to tread on his foot. 

Gwaine howled and something in the trees moved. Fortunately, no monster came at them so Arthur simply glared and said, “Really? Let's try and be quieter from now on, shall we?”

The Lady Morgana acted as though she hadn't witnessed all that. Instead she moved past them, contemplating the stony fortress rising before them with a dignity that demonstrated how she was dominating the fear she clearly felt. Arthur had seen her shiver before and at one point she had had to lean against a tree to brace herself. But now she was showing no qualms at the idea of venturing into the dark unknown of Bran castle.

As for the others, they exchanged a few jokes as they prepared for the attacked, mimed stabbing motions with their stakes, elbowed each other as they dared each other. Yet, Arthur knew how to read his men and could tell they weren't that much at ease. Arthur was acquainted with their tells, he knew every man well enough to spot them. For example Mordred's smile wasn't a sign of his confidence or incipient madness. It was his way of exorcising his demons. The same went for Gwaine's bravado, his trying to be the first in. Leon was studying the castle plans rather compulsively, which betrayed his need to always be informed, his wish that he could predict any and all outcomes. Similarly, Elyan cleaned his sword again and again, as if he could make sure it would strike true.

The only one whose reaction Arthur couldn't read was Merlin. He gazed at Castle Bran as though he was expecting the worst of it, as if he was bracing for the impact of what was to come. But did he fear for his life? Did he feel responsible for his Flügeladjutant, whom he had sent to Vienna as a dispatcher, and had fallen prey to a vampire?

For him Arthur did feel responsible. There was no reason to, of course. Merlin was an adult and an officer at that. As a doctor, he had less of a martial air than career soldiers or training sergeants with a mass of brawn did. But that didn't mean he was any the less ready to face action. And yet Arthur didn't want him to. He told himself this was because he wanted one of them to survive this mission so that he could report to Vienna were today's attempt to fail. But though Emryß was the most literate of them all, all of them could write an account of the events leading up to their attack on Castle Bran.

No, this was more personal, tied up with Arthur's feelings. He respected Merlin, of course he did. He'd proved that he was an efficient doctor, conducting autopsies, understanding when common medical predicaments had been turned into something they weren't by superstitions. It was a pity his skills hadn't helped the Transylvanian population put away their fears of the supernatural, that their enemy was not one the could fight through hard science and scientific advances. Nonetheless Arthur would entrust his life to his scalpel. But this wasn't what it was about. His fear for him had a simple emotive nature, one that sat strangely closer to his heart.

He'd have given this more thought if Lady Morgana hadn't turned around. “Whatever myths or legends you've heard about the vârcolaci, forget them.” She sighed at the shadows of Bran Castle. “You might think, for example, that they can't step freely into the daylight. That's a common misconception. While they're less powerful by sun up, they're by no means rendered powerless by it.”

“What sort of strength are we talking about?” Elyan asked, voicing a question that had been droning on in Arthur's mind for a while.

“Superhuman,” Lady Morgana said. There was no theatricality to her statement, no fanfare. “They're stronger than you and if they have some kind of pull on you, they'll lure you in and make you theirs.”

“So they’re charming heartbreakers.” Gwaine laughed, but none of the others did.

Lady Morgana ignored them. “Vlad himself is wise in years and was once a ruthless military leader. He's a tough foe, but his children, his converts, aren't quite like him. Some are new, and they're little more than undead, with no mind of their own and very basic cravings.” She closed her eyes then, her fingers gingerly teasing a spot on her neck. “Hunger makes them weak, as mindlessness does. Beware their aggressiveness, but do not fear them overly.”

“What about him?” Merlin lifted his chin towards the castle, his face as grim as Arthur had ever seen it. “How dangerous is he.”

“Very.” The Lady Morgana sat on a boulder swiping her skirts under her. Their hem was dirtied but she showed no care for that. She was focused on her speech, weighing her words. “But you have weapons against him, against them all. The blessed objects you're carrying with you. They'll be your salvation and the sole way to defeat them.”

“What happens if we don't?” Arthur had to make plans for the worst contingency. He was ready to stake his life on this, but he wanted to preserve his men's. In order to do so, he needed to know what he was facing.

“Things here will carry on as they long have.” Lady Morgana's voice didn't waver. She'd have been a good strong leader had she had the chance. “As for you, you'll be lost to a fate that will make death look attractive.”

The men looked to one another, their faces more drawn and strained than they'd hitherto been. None of them spoke; they all closed themselves off to the outer world and seemed to lose themselves to their inner one.

As their leading officer, Arthur was compelled to speak. “This is something I have to ask.” He scrutinised the hard-packed earth at his feet. “Before this, we have fought enemies of flesh and blood.” They had fought together in Poland and the Rhineland during the last years of the war for the succession to the Polish kingdom and later against the Ottoman Empire, having all witnessed the bloodshed – and lost comrades – that was Banja Luka. It was how Arthur had climbed the ranks so quickly, commanding this group of men and surviving. “But I can't in good conscience ask you to follow me into this to the perdition of your souls.” Arthur had always thought of himself as a man of action rather than words, so this was hard for him. “I mean I'd understand if you didn't want to, um, proceed.”

Having studied the mood by way of a quick glance towards the rest of the men, Merlin stepped forward. “I haven't served under you before,” he said it with a simplicity that did him proud, “but I think I speak for these men as well when I say that we would never let you face this alone.” He paused. Perhaps it was to think his address through or maybe it was as though to go over a difficult hurdle. “I know I will be by your side every step of the way.”

Arthur's men vociferously approved. The ladies, Gwen and Morgana, made it known they were not to be forgotten. They were part of this attempt to stop Vlad.

Words failed Arthur. He knew what he was asking. He knew what they were facing, a monster they hadn't believed existed till a few scant days ago. He merely couldn't express how proud he was of these men and women for trying this with him. Gwen and Morgana were showing a courage that that knew no bounds and Merlin, who, unlike Arthur's own men, didn't know what it was like to charge into the fray with Arthur moved him with his blind trust.

All Arthur said was, “Well then, let's put an end to Vlad the Impaler.”

When the large stone was moved aside, the cave opened. It stretched forward into the darkness, smelling of earth and musk, though not so foul as Merlin had expected. The walls were of the same thick metamorphic rock that was common in the Carpathians, dripped water, and receded farther and farther away into the darkness. As they filed in, Merlin felt a frisson that travelled up his body and made his heart speed up. His body was on the alert for nasty surprises, preparing for a fight, and imbibing a sense of fear from their surroundings. 

Sword bared, Arthur was the first to enter and Merlin followed on his heels even if everything in him screamed not to plunge into the darkness ahead. Yet he would never have passed on this mission. He was a part of it, had been from the get go. He had made mistakes; his blind belief in reason and science had made him ignore what the people had been trying to tell him. He had been too arrogant to see it, as Lady Morgana had pointed out. Besides this, he wanted to make sure Arthur, the Hauptmann, wasn't the only one to run into danger.

He'd taken sole responsibility with a startling courage. But Merlin wanted to support him in this and make sure he came out of this alive.

As they moved away from the entrance, the torches they'd been holding aloft started guttering, crackling as they cast shadows along the wall. The footsteps of Arthur's men following behind them slowed as they had to feel around in the dark. Gwen and Lady Morgana's had been chattering to each other as they started into the cave, but by now they had fallen silent.

Merlin proceeded at the same pace as Arthur, finding footholds and finger-holds to help him along. He'd just started feeling as if the ground was sloping, when a moist air travelled towards them, like a gust from an open door, and a ferocious screeching filled the cave. Before Merlin could determine what that was, he was battling against batting leathery wings, fighting off a claws that managed to find the tender spots his uniform didn't cover.

Gwaine shouted, “Argh, I've got one. It's a bat, for God's sakes.”

In the cave and as close to each other as they were, they couldn't fight them off with their swords. So they tried to keep them at bay with their torches, which whooshed as they waved them about. 

At last Lady Morgana said, “He can control bats. It's him that has sent them.” She skewered one with Leon's sword, which she duly returned. Then raced ahead. Her voice rose powerfully when she added, “Enough's enough.”

After having exacted their pound of flesh, the bats flew past, making for the exit to the cave.

“Is everybody all right?” Arthur asked as he turned around to check. 

Merlin was bleeding from a cut on the neck. By the little light the flambeaux shed, he could see that everyone else was more or less in the same condition he was, sporting minor scratches and no serious wounds. 

Her face that of a ghost in the torchlight, her nostrils flaring, Morgana tore a piece of her scarf and staunched Merlin's little surface wound. “Everybody else do the same. Blood entices them.”

Merlin could see the wisdom in this. Predators reacted to the smell of blood, and for the moment it was better to think of these monsters as feral animals out to to get them.

Their scrapes seen to to the best of their abilities, they proceeded on, Arthur guiding them. Before long they came to a set of stairs hewn out of the rock. They were worn and hollowed out in places, standing witness to the frequent use this passage had been put to.

“It's just like in the map,” Arthur said, holding up the torch. “This passage must lead into the castle.”

As they'd prepared for this venture, they'd consulted the old medieval documents describing castle Bran. There hadn't been many, as if somebody had tried to obscure the past of the fortress, but a few key drawings had remained in the bowels of the Town Hall archives. These they'd consulted as they forged their plan.

As they moved deeper into the bowels of the gorge their torches flared. 

“There's oxygen somewhere,” Merlin said, as he lit the walls of the passage. “We must really be moving towards the end of the tunnel.”

Though they were descending, they were moving quicker now thanks to the augmented light source, when a stream of insects started moving against them. They weren't big but they were in their thousands, their little legs briskly crawling along, their carapaces glistening in the glow of their torches. They spiralled along, pouring against them, climbing the walls, moving against the tide.

“One bit me,” Gwaine said, smacking his cheek with the broad of his hand. “Yikes.”

“They're in my shoes.” Disgust dripped from Gwen's voice.

“We'll have to soldier on,” Morgana said, as though she wasn't fazed by the swarm. “Worse awaits us.”

As a doctor, Merlin hated these unclean animals as much as the next person. The presence of these insects made his skin crawl even where it wasn't touched. The idea that they were all over him, trying to climb into his clothes and creep into his hair made him want to retch. He had a hard time keeping his revulsion at bay. 

Fortunately, the tide came to an end as they faced a set of stairs climbing upwards. Merlin wasn't a genius when it came to orientation, but even he could tell they'd passed the gorge from underneath, and were now heading towards the fortress proper.

They could smell it on the air, which was by far less dank than it had been at the mouth of the cave, and see it in the quality of light that filtered in from above.

Being closer to Vlad's lair, they proceeded more slowly, so as not to be surprised by any trap. It was just as well, for the ground opened between segments of stairs, and blades came singing towards them. 

Arthur, who still led them, was just in time to yell, “Watch out,” when the roundels of metal came singing towards them. 

Hoping the others were doing the same, Merlin ducked, breathing hard. Once the blades had swished past, Merlin stood again and turned round. Gwen, Leon, and Mordred were separated from them by a chasm opening up where the now sunken treads had been. Arthur, Morgana, Merlin, Percival and Gwaine were on the other one, facing the rest of the stairs. With the immediate emergency past, now that Merlin had time to breathe and think, he realised that what had happened was no more than a trick devised by the castle builders back in the day. There still was a chance Vlad didn't know they were there. 

But now wasn't the time to think of that. They had to reunite their group, which the current gap didn't allow.

“Here,” Percival said, undoing his belt and asking for others so he could build a rope with them. “Just grab this and I'll help you to the other side.”

Thankfully, Percival was strong enough to bear Gwen and Mordred's weight all on his own, but for Leon Merlin and Arthur had to join in.

Once they were all on the good side they started climbing again. The more they did, the more natural light they could benefit from.

They could almost have extinguished their torches when the stairs flowed into a great hall. It was large and shadowy, with stone giving way to plaster floors lit by chandeliers and candles. Pieces of armour rusted in corners, old weapons were on display in niches and on walls. 

At first glance the hall was empty. It looked disused and uninhabited, such as a castle as old as this one could well be. Spiderwebs lurked at the conjunction of walls and over the rotten furniture that still sat there. Dust was heavy on the floor and on the objects still conserved in the room.

And yet Merlin's hackles rose. The silence sounded unnatural to him. The apparent emptiness seemed like a lure. 

He'd been right, for the shadows revealed forms looming in the dark. At first they didn't move, they stayed enveloped in the shadows of the great hall, but between one breath and the next they had glided forwards. No sound of steps had resounded, but around the room were at least ten men and women.

As they circled closer however, Merlin could tell they were no longer alive. Their pallor was that of the grave. The way they held themselves indicated their control of their bodies was not accurate. Their skin was lacerated in places as if it was already undergoing the process of decomposition. 

When their eyes glowed red, Merlin knew he was witnessing something no human should. It was more than merely uncanny; it was unhallowed. Shivers ran down his spine; his body got as cold as the grave. It was a warning, but one he could not heed.

The vârcolaci attacked.

Arthur unsheathed the sword Gwen had given him. It sang as it rended the air. Even if he could not quantify it, Arthur felt its power. 

At the same time the vârcolaci fell upon them. They didn't have weapons, but that didn't mean they weren't dangerous. Their fangs were bared and they were angrier than rabid dogs. They were fast too, one moment they were there and the next they weren't. One moment they were in front of them, the next behind.

Arthur's men fought with swords and blessed stakes, the ladies with slightly lighter swords. Lady Morgana had chosen not to carry any stake, any symbol of any religion. She just had an old family sword with her. Arthur was worried about her, amongst them she was the one who carried the smallest arsenal. But in the mêlée Arthur couldn't keep track of her. 

He was too busy running his sword through one of the vampires. It singed the creature, who screamed with a yell similar to a bat's screech and to off-pitch bells. It didn't down him though. Arthur hadn't got the heart. He had only been able to direct his sword in the general direction of the vârcolac. This time he would do better, he would fight on.

The same was true of his companions. Though initially charmed by her glamour, Gwaine killed a female vampire who'd been looking to rip his throat open. Percival used his fists to keep the monsters at bay, while Gwen swung one of her father's swords around. 

Merlin fought back to back with Arthur, keeping the vârcolaci away from him, so that Arthur could more efficiently kill, aiming to get the heart of beasts that would never otherwise cease fighting. 

In the process Merlin got wounded many times. Arthur could hear him gasp and feel him wince, yet he managed to keep a fair few vârcolaci at a distance. He used his sword in the way of a surgeon, aiming at limbs extended towards him, hacking in strategic places. 

As for Arthur, he had just run his blade through a vârcolac's heart, watching it turn to dust, when Arthur saw Vlad descending the stairs that gave onto the great hall. He was tall and dark of hair, his face sharp and all angles, the light shining in his eyes both unnatural and full of clever malice. 

Given the way he walked, with the assurance of a predator, Arthur had no doubt as to his identity. It was Vlad, that Voivode of long ago whose harsh rule had stifled this region for decades. He did have the grace of a leader, of a prince, but he also exuded the feral quality of a beast in the wild.

In his heart of hearts, Arthur knew he was facing a creature that didn't belong to this world, but to the underworld of nightmares and darkness.

“Vlad,” Arthur shouted, shifting his attention on the Voivode, “your hour has come!”

As his underlings fought more fiercely then before, Vlad descended the stairs with the slowness of a king rejoining his subjects. Though he must know why Arthur was here, he showed no fear. The smile that painted itself of his face was provocative and oozing self-assurance. 

Vlad was used to having his way, to victimising a population that would never rise in revolt because of how much they historically feared him. The essence of what Vlad was was woven in the tales told of him; lore described him as untouchable. He'd probably come to believe he was too. 

Arthur would prove that he wasn't. 

With Merlin making sure that Arthur wasn't beset from behind, Arthur advanced. He made the sign of the cross and Vlad flinched. But he didn't stop. He clearly meant to face Arthur. 

Arthur pushed on towards him too. He held his sword with both his hands, pointing it at the vârcolac. 

“This is a thrice blessed blade, Vlad,” Arthur said, moving towards the vampire. “You know it'll defeat you.”

“I'll feast on your bones,” the vârcolac replied, watching as his underlings pestered Arthur's men. “And of those dear to you.”

“I'll allow you no such thing.” Though fear penetrated Arthur's hard won carapace, he did involuntarily think of his friends and allies, of Merlin in particular, who was even now fighting off two vampires lusty for blood. “You'll pay for the innocent lives you've already taken.”

“This is not your fight to fight, little soldier boy.” Vlad spoke with the accent of Transylvania, though his words also had the cadence of the past. “This is not your land to defend, but mine!”

Out of instinct Arthur answered, “Transylvania belongs to Hungary and therefore to Austria. In the name of my queen I will forever protect it and its inhabitants!”

“Forever.” Vlad scoffed. “You don't know what that means, you puny mortal.”

“I don't care about your kind of immortality.” Arthur could see how it had corrupted Vlad, what kind of monster it had made of him and his converts. “I'll gladly die for a good cause!”

“Oh, I'll see to it myself,” Vlad said, making his way towards Arthur. “You won't get to taste the joys of life eternal.”

“I'll make sure you return to your tomb.” Though Vlad's presence quickened his heartbeat and made his instincts wilder, Arthur would make sure Vlad could no longer haunt this region. “Even if it's the last thing I do.”

They had come so close by now that Arthur could make out every single feature in Vlad's face. He could see the red-tinged eyes, the battle scars Vlad had acquired when living, the cast of his face, which now had little that was human.

“This will be your death,” Vlad said, his fangs glinting. “Rest assured.”

Arthur stopped himself from listening. It wouldn't help. The vampire was goading him, trying to scare him. He wouldn't let that affect him. Instead he touched the tip of his blessed sword to Vlad's chest. Vlad howled as if the blade had run him through. As if to staunch the blood flow, he spread his palm across his chest and moved backwards. 

“Kill them.” A rictus of pain and rage had twisted Vlad's mouth. “Kill them all.”

Before Arthur could renew his attack, he had a look around. His men were now losing the day. Gwaine was being attacked by two powerful vârcolaci at once. Gwen had been cornered and was trying to keep a female vampire off her by showing her a medal etched with the imprint of some saint or other. Though Mordred and Leon were fighting in tandem they were beset by more than one creature. They had been driven up against a wall, which offered some security but no promise of escape. Morgana he couldn't see.

As for Merlin, he slashed with his sword at the vampire he was duelling with. But the momentum of his sword caused him to fall forwards just as two more creatures beset him. He scrambled away when they came too close, brandishing their weapons as well as their overlong nails and fangs. He raised his blade to protect himself, but just as he parried an axe blow, his side was slashed open by a sickle-like weapon. 

Even Arthur could pick out the scent of blood; Vlad's minions were driven crazy by it. More than one left his previous opponent alone in order to attack Merlin.

Arthur's blood froze. Fear stunned him into inaction. He was facing Vlad but wanted to turn around and help Merlin. He wanted him out of this God-forsaken castle, away from these monsters that were worse than any foe they had met on the battlefield.

Holding his side, but still swinging his weapon, Merlin shouted, “Kill him. If you do, they'll have less power.”

Arthur still wavered, wanting Merlin to be safe first and foremost. He'd spent the past weeks sharing everything with this man, from food to a room, to thoughts as to this venture of theirs. More than most he'd become the epitome of this mission for Arthur, someone to care for. Seeing him threatened made him lose his bearings. 

It was Merlin's repeated shout of, “Do it, Arthur! I believe in you!” that made Arthur determined to put an end to Vlad.

Morgana lured the vampire she was fighting into a room housed under the stairs that led to the main hall. Here none of the others could see her bare her fang. Here no one would know what she was. She tossed her head back and dropped her sword. She didn't need it. All she needed was the rage and hunger that still fought for her soul.

The other vârcolac, a woman who, by the looks of her, had been recently turned, said, “What are you doing with them? You're one of us.”

Morgana didn't speak about her shame, the way she rued how her pride had led her astray. She wouldn't let herself become a scourge for humanity, even though she now revelled in the power her body, albeit hungry and needing fresh blood, allowed. “I've change sides.”

“Turncoat.” The vârcolac spat at the floor as if it was Morgana. “If he dies, you won't have eternal life.”

“If he dies I won't turn into you.” She smirked and rushed her enemy, her teeth bared, the best knives in creation.

Keeping his eyes on his enemy, Arthur took a step forwards. Vlad growled and hissed, but Arthur placed the tip of his sword on his chest, by his heart, and started walking forwards, ignoring everything that was going on around him barring the vârcolac's howl of pain. 

As Arthur advanced, Vlad retreated, marching backwards, recoiling as the blessed sword drew ounces of blood. Strength suffused Arthur then, travelling in his muscles and tendons, making his blood rush with the elation of battle. He didn't taunt Vlad; the taunt was all in the force this weapon was giving him, in its irresistible power. 

He goaded Vlad on. Without turning, Vlad moved backwards towards the stairs he'd come from. It was as if he was in the blessed sword's thrall. 

Vlad climbed the stairs backwards, Arthur facing him and pushing him on with his sword, scraping at his skin with the end of the blade, the skin receding before its might, smoke pouring out of the singed skin. 

Together they go up the stairs, Vlad unable to turn around, yet ineffably moving towards a goal only he knew. Without wavering Arthur kept him in his sights, his sword never straying from his chest. He wasn't thinking. He was merely obeying an instinct even Vlad had to have an inkling of. From time to time he uttered a prayer. What came out of his mouth were words he had forgotten in childhood, incantations that had seemed bland to him but that were powerful enough to make Vlad recoil.

Vlad's face distorted more and more. As the blade touched him dark blood flowed out of him. It wasn't fresh, for it stank of the grave, and upon contact with the blade it sizzled. The vârcolac's eyes burned like a fiery pit, his mouth twisted in pain, his features became more and more akin to a monster's. 

As if dancing the dance of death, they crossed the grand gallery, a long corridor hung with portraits of potentates of old, and a narrower passage. They moved in a straight line, obstacles whether in the shape of furniture or structural — such as columns – ceased to exist. Even the tread-worn carper under their feet smoothed out as if to allow for Vlad's voyage. Windows opened under the force of a strong gale and the skies thundered with the wrath of any heaven there was. 

There was neither sun nor moon, and darkness infringed all around. 

They descended a new set of stairs and came to a dark and gloomy pit. There were no crosses here, no sepulchral stones. All there was was an open casket, a marble bier under it. While all prayers and references to any God had been scratched away, Vlad's name remained. 

With deliberate strides Arthur impelled the vârcolac backwards. Vlad stumbled and stretched his arm out behind him, causing the lid of the casket to fall off. 

When Vlad had climbed the first step to the bier, Arthur stopped. “Do you repent your sins?”Arthur was a soldier and he would have killed this monster straight out, but something made him stop, as if he was acting according to a ritual that had been written long before he was born. “All is not over for you. Repentance is still within your grasp.”

“I won't repent.” Though he was in pain from the blade digging in his chest, though his skin was still smoking from the contact, Vlad laughed. “I became what I am to defy God and men. To take what was mine, what was plundered from my grasp.”

Arthur shook his head, disgust morphing his features. “You may have lived so long, but you don't have a scrap of humanity left in you.”

“You think you're better than me?” Vlad asked. “I can tell you already that you're not.”

Arthur shouldn't have listened, but he did. “What do you mean?”

“Your friend.” Vlad moved his head to the side, hinting at a space separate from this crypt. “He's even now dying. I can feel the life ebbing out of him and my children hankering for his remains.”

“You're lying.” Arthur spoke with a confidence he didn't have. He'd seen Merlin take the wound. He'd seen him falter. “No one should believe your words, deceiver.”

“I can turn him. I can grant him life. If you kill me, you kill the only person between him and the grave.” He patted his own. “And unlike me he won't go for walk-abouts.”

Arthur's sword wavered. His heart took the impact of the words Vlad had spoken and almost stopped for it. He hardly knew Merlin, he told himself. The way his heart motioned for him was certainly due to the circumstances, their being far away from home, stuck in a situation none of them had been able to control. But that wasn't all. He couldn't sacrifice Merlin to reason, not even when it came to the welfare of the Transylvanians.

“I hit a chord, I see,” Vlad said.

Arthur didn't heed him. He was merely gloating. Instead he focused inwards. What kind of person would his actions make him? If he sacrificed thousands wasn't he exactly like Vlad? Yet, Merlin.

“His blood is gushing out,” Vlad said, smacking his lips. “Fresh like communion wine.”

Arthur pushed the blade deeper into Vlad's chest, yet away from his still heart. “You still mock us and worship unhallowed powers.”

“And you would sacrifice your loved one in the name of righteousness.” Vlad, pale and tortured by the wound Arthur had inflicted, still had breath enough to taunt him.

Arthur wavered one more time. The moment he did Vlad lashed out, jumping off the bier and towards Arthur, fangs bared like a mad wolf. Yet At sight of Arthur's blessed sword, he recoiled, made himself smaller. It was just for a moment, but it was enough.

“Arthur!” Merlin stood there holding his side, blood staining the white of his regimental uniform. He was trembling, his hold on his sabre precarious. And yet determination shone in his eyes. “Finish him. Eradicate this pestilence from the face of the earth.”

Two cries rang out at the same time; Arthur's and Vlad's. Then rushing him, Arthur pushed the vampire in to the casket, into which Vlad fell. Arthur raised his sword and plunged it right into the vârcolac's heart. 

Vlad's body wrinkled and shrank, his lungs emitted a yell that lost power the more his body came undone. Yet he wasn't dead yet.

With a terrible groan Merlin lifted his regiment sabre and cut Vlad's head right off.

He smiled faintly, then promptly fainted.

Morgana knew when Vlad died. Her powers waned, her teeth retracted, and she was left to fight on her own steam. For a moment she tasted the cold taste of fear. She avoided the creature that she had defied but a moment before. Then she saw the old halberd standing in the corner. She hatched a plan. 

She took the halberd from the wall. It was heavy and unwieldy, but she used all her strength to heave it. With it she struck a heavy cleaving blow that split her rival's head in two and caused it to fall off and roll away.

She let go of the halberd, which clanged as it impacted the ground, and dusted herself off. She still shook from the residual charge of the fight, but all her fear had been dispelled. She didn't need the powers that Vlad had bestowed on her to make a difference. She needn't be a vârcolac to shape her own destiny and be powerful. She had just proved it here and now. 

She had defeated a monster on her own. She could well defy expectations and do what she pleased. The disadvantages that came with her situation, being a young woman at the mercy of her parents and whoever became her husband wouldn't necessarily impact her life. She could and would stand firm without any vârcolac to help her.

She could have rejoined the others, but there was something else weighing on her conscience. She therefore used the smaller door that gave onto a passage that ran under the stairs. It was dark and lugubrious, long and draughty. She came upon a small court and then again upon a set of rooms that terminated in a corridor leading to a cell. 

A man was slumped against the wall, his skin wan and waxy, bites on his neck, his shirt stained with blood. Based on the dirty uniform trousers he wore she could tell he was the Flȕgeladjutant the Queen's soldiers had sent back to Vienna. He had never made it there, of course. He had been captured according to the information she had supplied.

Without punishing herself for something she couldn't change, she bent and picked up a rock. With it she pummelled the lock, until it gave and the door opened.

He was slumped and unconscious, but Morgana could hear him breathe.

She sighed herself and murmured close to his ear. “I'm so sorry this happened to you, but it's all over now.”

Tamping down on the worry that gnawed at his heart, Arthur picked the unconscious Merlin up, leaving his sabre behind. As he moved the blood that spilled from Merlin's side wetted his own uniform. Arthur tried not to think about it, did his best not to let himself dwell on the quantity of blood Merlin was losing or the fact he wasn't waking up. He just took one step after the other and, muscles burning, took him downstairs.

There he saw his companions in the aftermath of the battle. They were all the worse for wear, but only Gwaine was wounded. He had a gash on his arm Gwen was patching up as best she could. But for scratches and minor scrapes they were fine, for which Arthur breathed a breath of relief. 

It didn't last long. The others gathered around him. 

“What happened?” Gwen asked, cupping her mouth.

“Vlad's dead.” Arthur's voice was rusty, mechanical. He couldn't manage the strength to say anything more. “Merlin's not well.”

Though he wished he could carry him all the way back to Brasov, he let Percival take him off him. Arthur's muscles were sore enough, Percival had the strength to carry a battalion and the last thing they needed was for Arthur to drop Merlin.

On the way back to Brasov, Merlin woke twice. He seemed to know what was going on and even smiled feebly when Arthur told him they would soon be back at the inn, that everything was fine and that he just needed to hold on till they got there. 

Merlin nodded and fell into a torpor Arthur couldn't quite distinguish from a faint.

All the while Arthur wanted to take his hand, give him all his support, but he couldn't do the first, not with the others looking and wondering, and as for his optimism the events of the day had killed it.

When they got to the inn, they were welcomed by Thomas. He had questions as to what had happened, whether they were free of Dracula's curse, but when he saw Percival lumber Merlin up to his room, he just said, “I'll go boil some water.”

“And linens and some big needles,” Gwen said, hurrying up the stairs after Percival.

Arthur stayed in the common room, looking up at the space vacated by Gwen and Percival.

Lady Morgana placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don't torture yourself so. Go up and be with him.”

Arthur felt his eyes grow round and his mouth open. What had she guessed? What did she know? Whatever it was Arthur didn't question her further. He raced up the stairs and banged the door to their room open. 

Percival had laid Merlin on his bed and stripped him of his shirt, Gwen was darting around in a panic. When Thomas came with water and other supplies Gwen took them and hurried to the bedside. She used water and rags to clean the wound, one of the smithy's irons to cauterise the wound, and needle and thread to close the wound.

Arthur watched from near the door. He wanted to help, but he was no nurse and Percival was more than capable of holding Merlin down when he thrashed from the hot iron. For as long as Gwen tended to him Arthur stood there, holding onto the hilt of his sword and if he could bend it round and round. For each stitch he gritted his teeth, for each moan he suppressed a gulp. His jaw hurt from all the grinding he was doing and his hands wanted to move hectically, though he didn't let them. 

When Gwen stood, a plethora of bloodied rags around her, she said, “I've done what I can, but I'm no doctor.”

Arthur inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“I suppose we'll have to wait and see,” she said, looking with concern at Merlin's prone form. “I'll go and check on Gwaine and Daegal, then come back upstairs.”

“I'll stay with him.” Arthur only moved from his spot once Gwen was gone. 

Then he took a stool and placed it by Merlin's bedside. They had no clock in here, there was only one downstairs, and Arthur had forgotten to wind his pocket watch, so he had no idea how long he sat there. Night fell, that he knew, with a silvery shine that seemed to speak of quiet winter nights and heavenly calm. He wondered if nature knew that the beast had been done away with. 

Merlin woke twice during that time, once when Gwen came with dinner, of which neither he nor Arthur partook, the second time he started talking somewhat disconnectedly. Arthur tried to keep him awake, but Merlin inched into a heavy sleep Arthur had no heart to steal him from.

Arthur was enveloped in the darkness of a deep slumber, when Merlin woke him. “Is he dead?” he asked with a faraway look that vanished the more he seemed to come to terms with his current surroundings. “Vlad, is he?”

Arthur rubbed his eyes, nodded. “You killed him.”

“I think you have it wrong.” He tried to shift, but groaned. “You were the one who rid the world of that plague.”

Arthur didn't want to argue. Whoever had dispatched Vlad, what mattered was that he was dead, and this time forever. “You should rest now.”

“Uh, uh.” Merlin gave his head a feeble shake. “I want to know what happened to the others.”

“They're fine.” When Arthur realised Merlin wouldn't be content with that, he added, “Gwaine has a scratch, but Gwen took care of him, and Lady Morgana found Daegal. He's alive.”

Merlin pushed off the blankets. “I need to attend to him.”

“Oh no.” Arthur pushed him back down, though Merlin put up such a fight it seemed to him his strength was returning. “You're staying in bed. You're in no condition to go gallivanting around.”

“I'm the only doctor around!”

Arthur frowned. How could Merlin not see? “At the moment you're actually a patient. If Gwen hadn't sewn you up, you'd still be bleeding all over.”

Merlin pushed off his blankets and lifted his shirt. More than one layer of gauze had been used to bandage him. “Can't see the stitches.”

“You'll scar.” Arthur had seen the wound, he had no doubt of that. Just as Merlin survived this, he was fine with that. He pushed him back down, “Now rest.”

“I don't want to rest.” Merlin's voice was threaded with exhaustion. “I fear...”

Ice enveloped Arthur's heart. “What? What do you fear?”

“I fear that if I fall asleep I won't wake up.” Merlin was looking at the top of the sheet covering him rather than at Arthur.

Arthur leant over and cupped his cheek, lifting Merlin's face so that he could look in Arthur's eyes. “Then don't sleep. Talk to me.”

“You need rest yourself--”

“I'm fine.” It was true then. Doctors made the worst patients. “What can I do to make you better?”

“Hope that I don't get a fever and that over the next few days I recover from the blood loss?” A smile rippled on Merlin's mouth, however weak he looked. 

“I know we can't battle infection.” Arthur wished he knew how. He'd seen field doctors tend the wounded, but he'd never bother to ask questions of them, to learn. And now the only doctor they had was the patient himself. Would he stay lucid if things got a turn for the worse? “But can I do anything about the blood?”

“No, nothing.” Merlin gave a feeble wag of the head. “There's no remedy.”

“There must be.” If there was any one method, Arthur wouldn't refrain from using it. “Think, Merlin, think.”

“Nothing's that's been tried before.” Merlin's voice was weakening even more. He sounded like a man on the verge of slumber. “Some sixty years ago an English doctor once transfused blood from a dog to another dog. And I think some time later Louis XIV's physician managed to perform the same operation but this time the donor was a sheep and the patient a young boy.”

“Let's do this then.” If it had been attempted before and it had worked, why shouldn't they repeat the experiment? Arthur would do anything to make Merlin better. He made to rise. “I'll go and kill a whole flock.”

“Arthur.” Merlin grabbed him by the wrist. “His third experiment failed and the patient died.”

“Fortune favours the brave, Merlin.” Arthur knew this wasn't the battlefield, but he liked to apply military rules to life. “We need to try.”

“It's not so simple.” Merlin shifted a little in bed and even that little motion seemed to pain him. “And I'm not so sure humans and animals, even if they be mammals, are at all compatible when it comes to this kind of thing.”

“Then we'll have the donor be human!” The answer was so easy. If Merlin would just be well... Arthur would move heaven and earth to see it so.

“Arthur, all this talk of vampires has addled your brains,” Merlin said, his lips thinning. “I can't take someone else's blood.”

“There's a difference between a victim and a willing donor,” Arthur said. “Vlad took what he wanted. I'll be giving it to you of my own free will.”

“Oh no.” Merlin's eyes widened as he understood what Arthur meant. “You're not doing any such thing. We don't know the outcome. We don't know if it'd harm you, and I won't allow anything to hurt you.”

“My decision, Merlin.” Arthur needed him to understand that. “You're worrying about what this procedure would do to me, but you're not asking yourself what grief your death would cause me. That would hurt me more than you can tell; I would not be able to live while thinking I hadn't done enough. And I'm a man of my word.”

Merlin didn't say anything to that; his eyes widened as he processed the true meaning of Arthur's words, as what Arthur was trying to say sank in. 

Arthur might not be a poet, but he wanted to believe he was a man of honour and that Merlin would understand what that implied. 

They didn't do it immediately. Merlin fell asleep, then woke again. They talked about this and that, the town of Brasov, its future now that it was free of the vȃrcolaci. They discussed their childhood, Merlin's in the countryside with his doctor uncle, and Arthur's at the outskirts of a town in view of a dilapidated castle that was his by birth right.

As the hours pass and the sky almost lightened, Merlin grew weaker. His breathing became rapid, his skin got cold, and his pulse weak. Arthur didn't need to be a doctor to know that this was bad. “All right,” he said, digging into the wooden wardrobe for Merlin's bag, “tell me what to do.”

“Arthur, I--”

Arthur thundered, “Tell me what to do!”

In the end they used syringes, of which Merlin had a few, and a piece of metal with wire segments hinged together to provide rigidity. Hiding his own wince, he dug it into his own vein, and then into Merlin's, who was scarcely conscious by then. 

He sat close to him, talking about his first year as a cadet of a royal army. He waited till Merlin regained some colour and he was starting to feel dizzy himself. Then he detached the metal conductor and wrapped up his and Merlin's entry wounds. Then he offered up a silent prayer to whoever would listen.

By the time he was done, he fell asleep in the corner of Merlin's single bed.

Gwen had two patients, Daegal and Merlin. Both were recovering, although at different speeds. Daegal had perked up a few days after he had been freed from his prison in Bran Castle, but then his mood had deteriorated badly, so that he slumped into a despondency nothing seemed to change. His body was recuperating faster than his mind was. Merlin, on the other hand, was slower to get better, his wound taking its time to re-knit, but he seemed almost happy. 

Gwen had asked him about it, and Merlin had simply said he was glad Vlad was dead and Transylvania free of his kind. Gwen had suspected there was more to it, but she didn't say it, both because Merlin, for all his apparent openness, could keep secrets, and because she spent most of her time with Daegal anyway.

At first they hadn't said much too each other. Gwen had acted as his nurse and Daegal himself was too poorly for conversation. By and by, however, she had discovered that he liked her presence. Though he was listless with others, he talked to her. After some initial reticence, he opened up and discussed the time he'd spent as prisoner at Bran Castle, the isolation, the vampire attacks, the loss of dignity he'd experienced as he sat there fearing for his life, waiting for the next session to happen.

“Your good luck charm seemed to work,” Daegal told her in a small voice. “I held on to it and thought of you. And the monsters forgot to kill me.”

Gwen took his hand in both of hers. “I'm glad. I'm inexpressibly glad.”

The moment seemed to mean something to both of them, for words failed them, but the silence, Gwen thought, was pleasant, buoying, life-affirming. 

By and by Daegal asked, “Shouldn't you check on the Herr Leutnant?”

Gwen had a quick answer to that. “I will by and by, but he doesn't need me right now. Arthur is with him all the time, never strays from his side. If something's the matter he'll rash downstairs himself.” She thought of how attentive and dutiful he had been and felt a glow of admiration for him. “No, the Leutnant is being well looked after.”

“Then I'd like you to stay a little longer,” Daegal said, squeezing her palm. “I love your company.”

Arthur opened the door. Their room looked more cheerful of late. Gwen had taken care to put flowers in the vase and to change the bed spreads. The window had been opened to change the air, which smelt like snow and holly. A knitted blanket lay on the chair, probably cast aside by Merlin himself. Books, which the townspeople had lent Merlin so he could while away the recovery, sat on the night stand in a neat pile. 

Merlin was sitting up in bed, with a blanket wrapped around him. There was a tray on his knees with emptied plates on it. He was trying to put it on the table that had been moved closer to the bed, to facilitate such exercises, when Arthur hurried over to him. “I can do that.”

“I can do this myself,” Merlin said with a smile. He looked much better than he had of late. His colour was high, his eyes shone with the brilliance of returning good health, and his movements were much spryer than they'd been at the beginning of his recovery. “Doctor's orders.”

Arthur still took the tray from him and placed it on the table. Then he undid his belt, lay it on the chair, with his sword tipped against it. He then turned around, took of his boots, which he placed on the rug at the foot of the bed and lay himself on it right next to Merlin. 

He made a show of crossing his ankles and placing his arms behind his head, but in truth he was just wriggling closer to Merlin. 

Ever since he'd been wounded on Arthur's watch, Arthur had felt the need to keep Merlin in sight, to make sure he was fine, getting better. He had to admit Merlin had made great progress. The wound had almost completely closed and though they kept it bandaged to avoid its re-opening, Arthur saw how the skin had knit. He'd been right; Merlin would scar. But a scar was proof of survival, wasn't it? Even so, he'd rather Merlin didn't over-exert himself.

So he said, “The doctor would be Gwen and I don't think she's given you leave to prance about.”

Merlin huffed. “I'm a medical men, I'm a decent judge of recovery stages, and if I say I can do something then I can.” He seemed to think about it. “Besides, you've been my physician through and through.”

Arthur hadn't done all that much. He'd been there when Gwen had changed Merlin's bandages, when she'd replaced stitches that had had come loose. But he hadn't been of any practical assistance. True, he'd sat there when Merlin needed company and had watched over him as he slept. But that was something anybody could do. But he didn't voice these thoughts. Instead he said, “In that case I have a say against you over-taxing yourself.”

“Putting a tray down isn't that.” A jocular light played in Merlin's eyes. “But thank you for caring.”

Arthur knew that Merlin was looking at him with gratefulness shining in his eyes, with honesty highlighting his every feature, and Arthur found that he didn't know what to say or do. “Again, I didn't do anything, but thank y--”

Merlin had bridged the space between them and touched Arthur's lips with his. His eyes were open in a question, and tenderness poured out of the gesture, shyness and reserve in the light touch. 

Arthur could have doubted himself, what he was doing, but in that moment all thought left him. He cupped Merlin's face, let their breaths mingle, and then he met Merlin in a kiss. They opened each other's mouths with a softness due to Arthur's fear of Merlin's fragility and to Merlin's fear of encroaching.

The kiss grew from that. Soon it no longer was a meeting of lips, a gusting of breath. Instead their tongues met, sliding softly against each other. Then some of the softness evaporated, giving way to keenness, to need.

Blood rushed to their faces, pinking them up. It warmed their bodies, rendering their movements febrile. Their mouths collided and then came apart, so that Arthur could touch his lips to Merlin's neck, so that he could suck on the skin that was offered up to him. 

As his lips skimmed along the veins of Merlin's neck, nipping as he went, Merlin's hand latched onto his flank, opening and closing, as if finding and losing a life-line. 

They gasped and groaned. They panted, excitation burning low under skin. Arthur’s body warmed with the proximity of Merlin’s body. 

Soon Merlin's hands were burrowing under coat and shirt, finding Arthur's sides, the small of his back. The span of them branded Arthur, the gentleness of them softened the newly focused desire that spurred Arthur on. The sword calluses on them told the tale of what they had in common, a career in the military in the service first of an emperor then of a queen. He remembered what had brought them here, what had hurt Merlin. “Wait,” he said, though his lips kept touching skin, kept trailing bone and muscle and sinew. “I don't want your wound to re-open. I--”

“I'm the doctor here,” Merlin said, his breath coming fast from what they were doing. “I know what I'm doing and unless that's an excuse for--”

This time it was Arthur who interrupted Merlin. He grabbed Merlin's head and threaded his fingers in his hair. It had grown a little since they'd met, the shorn military cut giving way to hair that was just starting to curl. He pulled them close, his heart in his throat, and angled them for a kiss that was off in its angle, less centred than the one that had gone before, and lewder and completely open-mouthed.

“I want you.” Arthur hadn't let himself say that to anyone for a long time. The constrictions of military life had curbed the manifestation of his passions. He'd learnt to rein them in, to curb them, so that his behaviour couldn't be reproached. And overall he'd been so busy, fighting on the battlefield or vying for advancement so as to make his father proud that he hadn't even noticed he'd shown too little ardour. But now there was no concealing it. Here was a man like him who had proved himself competent and courageous, a beautiful man Arthur longed for as he thirsted for water. “You don't know how much.”

“You've got me.” 

They were both gasping by them, with Merlin trying to bare as much of Arthur's skin as he could. He'd managed to throw off Arthur's coat and to unbutton the first buttons of his shirt, but Arthur was still over-all clothed. 

“Wait.” Arthur didn't want to stop kissing Merlin, so he undressed between one kiss and the next, parting from him only when it was necessary to get them where they wanted. “Let me get this off.”

Arthur bared his torso and pulled down the top of his trousers. It was perhaps obscene as his cock now bobbed free, already flushed and erect. 

Blanket and shirt cast off, Merlin tried to pull Arthur on top of him, but Arthur didn't want to hurt him, so he went on his haunches, mouthing at Merlin's torso, but making sure he stayed clear of the bandages. Merlin moaned and twisted, but from the look of his face he was in no pain.

That reassured Arthur and he went on, mapping the skin above the rim of the bandages, licking and tasting the salt on his skin. He was revelling in every single moment, thankful that Merlin hadn't been taken from him, when Merlin directed Arthur's head to his bulge with one hand, his other ripping at the covers.

Arthur mouthed him through his small clothes at first, until the fabric was soaked and Merlin's tip peeked out. By then Arthur's heart was drumming a wild beat in Arthur's chest and rational thought had abandoned him. Instinct made him imagine things, want things, but he didn't know what he'd be given leave to do, what he could do with Merlin in the condition he was in. 

Without saying a word, Merlin helped himself, touching himself, head thrown back. He seemed in ecstasy, his mouth parted, his eyes at half-mast, but something stopped him. With some noises indicating discomfort, he rid himself of trousers, small-clothes and socks, which ended up in a pile by the corner of the bed.

He lay there naked and panting, his body a beauty to behold, all sharp, flush lines, geometric angles that had a grace smoothed out by the marks arousal had left on him. 

His cock curved against his belly, his flanks were lean and his back arching out of basic need. 

Arthur's lungs seized with the beauty he was, with the thrum of want and need, of passion and feelings he was used to keeping in check. 

It must have been written on his face, because Merlin spoke. “I want you too.”

Arthur shook out of the spell of stupefaction he had fallen into. He supposed he had guessed right, that he knew what the message was. His body was most certainly primed for that – champing at the bit to – but he thought he had more decency. “Can you? I mean, are you well enough to...”

“It's all healing or healed.” Merlin's gaze bore into Arthur's eyes and simple desire shone together with reason. “I know what I'm doing, and I want this to happen.”

Arthur felt the same, so this time he didn't hesitate. 

He prepared Merlin with his mouth and with a salve that Merlin had in his possession and that he carried for different purposes. Merlin's breath stopped and started as Arthur touched him, gave him pleasure. Legs parted, he moved into the touch, pushed into it, till Arthur could see he was leaking at the tip and in a world of his own.

When Arthur topped him, he smiled, and Arthur smiled back, likely addled like a boy in the throes of his first love. But wasn't this something like it. Arthur had loved as a young man but those had been swift passions he'd quickly got over. As his military career had taken his everything, Arthur had pushed all that in the background and his heart had been starved for it. And now it craved again with a drive and focus that felt potent and brand new.

When Arthur entered Merlin, Merlin only sighed. Arthur didn't move at first. Though his body urged him to, though everything in him spurred him on, he put a brake on those instincts and just enjoyed the moment. 

His fingers ghosted over Merlin face, tracing the slope of his nose, which Arthur had liked to look at in the twilight of an evening. He nosed and nuzzled at his cheek and then slipped his tongue between Merlin's parted lips.

When they started with the push and pull of it, they made noises they hushed in a kiss. They gripped each other tight, bodies wrapped in one another. As he eased into Merlin, he caressed Arthur’s flanks and his back, moving into it every time Arthur thrust. He bit and sucked at Arthur's earlobe, mouthed at every spot of skin he could catch at. 

Though they were slow and Arthur took a care not to be rough, their bodies were sheathed in sweat. They slipped and slid against each other, their hands busy with learning each other's shape by virtue of touched. Their mouths met in kisses that dissolved in panted breath.

And when Arthur could hold on no more, he emptied in a long surge, making a desperate sound in his throat he couldn't quite swallow back. His chest was rising and falling with the rapidity of a frenzied current. 

When he propped himself on his elbows, he saw Merlin graze his cock with a touch that had something of the twisting about it. He came in long spurts Arthur bent over to suck at.

Only once they'd both calmed down did Arthur burrow into Merlin's side and smile at the ceiling.

Hofburg Palace, Vienna, March 1741

Queen Maria Theresa was reclining in an armchair when her page, bowing down, presented a letter on a salver. He straightened soon after, a hand behind his back, his dove grey wig sitting perfectly squarely on his head. “From Transylvania, königliche Hoheit.”

Maria Theresa nodded and dismissed the page, who retreated quickly, his little square heels clacking on the flagstones. She read the message twice, just to be sure. She was learning the hard way how to read between the lines when it came to assessing dispatches hailing from the front. And she did consider Transylvania to be a front of sorts.

When Count Starhemberg asked what the message had been about, Maria Theresa slowly answered. “The message says there is no monstrous threat haunting Transylvania and that the locals have been persuaded of this upon the death of a local aristocrat suspected of vampirism. The region is, they say, at peace.”

“Then we've achieved what we wanted,” Starhemberg said, his face relaxing as he acknowledged the piece of news. “They might not have been persuaded thanks to critical thinking but we should salute the outcome even if it's based on another level of superstition.”

Maria Theresa agreed. They had a war to think of, troops to order around, diplomacy to attend to. They had had half a victory, but would be content with that.

“A glass of sekt, Count?”

Epilogue

Justina entered the darkened vault, whose lofty architecture reflected the glory of the past. She didn't lament the gloom, for she could see well in the dark, even better than she did by daylight. She took a few long strides, the train of her velvet dress trailing after her. 

The grey wolf, the largest animal of his species, its furs shiny with tones of white, tapped after her, his eyes glinting like hers did. 

When she came close to the bier, the animal let out a whimper. It wasn't the whimper they used when they where hungry. It wasn't the sound they made when they were about to attack. And yet she understood its language.

She looked into the casket, whose drapings had gone to rot over the centuries, only contained a dried up mummy. Dust that had come from it lay scattered on the steps to the bier. That was all that remained of the Vovoide of Wallachia, her princely husband. Or perhaps not.

At the base of the bier were large dark stains.

She smelt the air. 

It was blood. Weeks old, but blood nonetheless. No one had bothered to clean the crypt of this uninhabited castle. 

Humans were so full of themselves. They took it upon themselves to kill and erase a race of beings that had existed since the dawn of time and yet they failed to study and research their prey. They didn't learn anything about their ways and habits, their physiology or the myths relating to them. They wanted to rationalise everything, to order the world so as to make of it an unthreatening place, answering to the dictates of their barren science. And once their world looked the way they thought it ought they called themselves content. And failed to look in the dark. 

That wasn't the way of the hunter. That wasn't the way of the vârcolaci.

She'd teach them better.

Pulling the train of her princely robe aside, she went on her knees and gathered up the dried up blood in a glass ampoule.

Then she stood and said, “The blood is the life.”

**** 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> So, you may have noticed that this story largely takes part in modern-day Romania, but back in 1740 the area was administered by Hungary, which was subject to Austria, by way of sharing a monarch, and was thus, yes, Austro-Hungarian. A great Transylvanian author, Miklós Bánffy, was actually ethnically Hungarian. 
> 
> During the course of the story I mention Emperess Maria Theresa, (I chose the English spelling of her name), but when her reign started she was 'only' a Queen. The Imperial title would come to her later. You may remember her as Marie Antoinette's mother.
> 
> For the purposes of this story just assume that Merlin and Arthur are of the same blood type.
> 
> Vlad The Impaler and his wife Justina actually lived and breathed, but they were never vampires. Myth made of Vlad a supernatural creature; I added his wife to the lore.
> 
> Lastly, this was largely based on a book by Matei Cazacu, who, in his biography of the historical Vlad, adds a chapter about the myth of the moroi in Transylvania. Austrian doctors were really sent to dispel the delusions concerning the undead.


End file.
